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. -^ \ 



By the same Author. 



WILFRID CUMBERMEDE 

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL STORY. 
I vol. 121110. Fourteen full page Illustrations. $175. 



WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 



BY 

GEORGE MACDONALD, LL. D. 

AUTHOR OF "WILFRID CUMBERMEDE," " ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOR- 
HOOD," ETC. 



NEW YORK: 

SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG, & CO. 

(SUCCESSORS TO CHARLES SCRIBNER AND CO.) 

1872. 






RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 

H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 



JUN 6 190? 



/ 



TO 

L. P. M. D. 

Receive thine own ; for I and it are thine. 
Thou know'st its story ; how for forty days — 
Weary with sickness and with social haze, 

(After thy hands and lips with love divine 

Had somewhat soothed me, made the glory shine, 
Though with a watery lustre,) more delays 
Of blessedness forbid — I took my ways 

Into a sohtude, Invention's mine ; 

There thought and wrote afar, and yet with thee. 

Those days gone past, I came, and brought a book ; 

My child, developed since in limb and look. 
It came in shining vapors from the sea. 
And in thy stead sung low sweet songs to me. 

When the red life-blood labor would not brook. 

G. M. D. 
May, 1855. 




WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 
PART I. 

Go thou into thy closet ; shut thy door ; 

And pray to Him in secret : He will hear. 

But think not thou, by one wild bound, to clear 
The numberless ascensions, more and more, 
Of starry stairs that must be chmbed, before 

Thou comest to the Father's hkeness near. 

And bendest down to kiss the feet so dear 
That, step by step, their mounting flights passed o'er. 

Be thou content if on thy weary need 
There falls a sense of showers and of the spring ; 
A hope that makes it possible to fling 

Sickness aside, and go and do the deed ; 

For highest aspiration will not lead 
Unto the calm beyond all questioning. 



PART I. 

Scene I. — A cellin a convent. Julian alone. 

Julian. T7 VENING again, slow creeping like a 
J--' death! 
And the red sunbeams fading from the wall, 
On which they flung a sky, with streaks and bars, 
Of the poor window-pane that let them in, 
For clouds and shadings of the mimic heaven ! 
Soul of my cell, they part, no more to come. 
But what is light to me, while I am dark ! 
And yet they strangely draw me, those faint hues, 
Reflected flushes from the Evening's face, 
Which as a bride, with glowing arms outstretched, 
Takes to her blushing heaven him who has left 
His chamber in the dim deserted east. 
Through walls and hills I see it ! The rosy sea ! 
The radiant head half-sunk! A pool of light. 
As the blue globe had by a blow been broken, 
And the insphered glory bubbled forth ! 



10 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part I. 

Or the sun were a splendid water-bird. 
That flying furrowed with its golden feet 
A flashing wake over tlie waves, and home ! 

Lo there ! Alas, the dull blank wall ! — High up, 

The window-pane a dead gray eye ! And night 

Come on me like a thief! 'Tis best ; the sun 

Has always made me sad. I'll go and pray : 
The terror of the night begins with prayer. 

( Vesper bell.) Call them that need thee ; I need not 
thy summons ; 
My knees would not so pain me when I kneel. 
If only at thy voice my prayer awoke. 
I will not to the chapel. When I find Him, 
Then will I praise Him from the heights of peace ; 
But now my soul is as a speck of life 
Cast on the deserts of eternity ; 
A hungering and a thirsting, nothing more. 
I am as a child new-born, its mother dead, 
Its father far away beyond the seas. 
Blindly I stretch my arms and seek for him : 
He goeth by me, and I see him not. 
I cry to him : as if I sprinkled ashes. 
My prayers fall back in dust upon my soul. 



Scene I. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. II 

{Choir and organ-i7iusic.) I bless you, sweet sounds, 
for your visiting. 
What friends I have ! Prismatic harmonies 
Have just departed in the sun's bright car. 
And fair, convolved sounds troop in to me, 
Stealing my soul with faint deliciousncss. 
Would they took shapes ! What levees I should hold I 
How should my cell be filled with wavering forms ! 
Louder they grow, each swelling higher, higher ; 
Trembling and hesitating to float off. 
As bright air-bubbles linger, that a boy 
Blows, with their interchanging, wood-dove hues, 
Just throbbing to their flight, like them to die. 
— Gone now ! Gone to the Hades of dead loves ! 

Is it for this that I have left the world ? 
Left what, poor fo'ol "i Is this, then, all that comes 
Of that night when the closing door fell dumb 
On music and on voices, and I went 
Forth from the ordered tumult of the dance, 
Under the clear cope of the moonless night. 
Wandering away without the city-walls. 
Between the silent meadows and the stars. 
Till something woke in me, and moved my spirit, 



12 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part I. 

And of themselves my thoughts turned towards God ; 

When straight within my soul I felt as if 

An eye was opened ; but I knew not whether 

'Twas I that saw, or God that looked on me ? 

It closed again, and darkness fell ; but not 

To hide the memory ; that, in many failings 

Of spirit and of purpose, still returned ; 

And I came here at last to search for God. 

Would I could find Him ! O, what quiet content 

Would then absorb my heart, yet leave it free. 

A knock at the door. Enter Brother Robert with a light. 

Robert. Head in your hands as usual ! You will fret 
Your life out, sitting moping in the dark. 
Come, it is supper-time. 

jfulian. I will not sup to-night. 

Robert. Not sup ! You'll never live to be a saint. 

yulian. A saint ! The devil has me by the heel. 

Robert. So has he all saints ; as a boy his kite, 
Which ever struggles higher for his hold. 
It is a silly devil to gripe so hard ; — 
He should let go his hold, and then he has you. 
If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you. 
Hark to the chorus ! Brother Stephen sings. 



Scene I. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 13 

Chorus. Always merry, and never drunk, 
Thafs the life of the jolly monk. 



SONG. 

They say the first monks were lonely men, 
Praying each in his lonely den, 
Rising up to kneel again. 
Each a skinny male Magdalen, 
Peeping scared from out his hole 
Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole ; 
But years ring changes as they roll. 
Cho. Now always merry, <&*<:. 

When the moon gets up with her big round face, 

Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place, 

Down to the village below we pace ; — 

We know a supper that wants a grace : 

Past the curtseying women we go, 

Past the smithy, all a-glow, 

To the snug little houses at top of the row- 

Cho. For always merry, dr^c. 

And there we find, amongst the ale, 
The fragments of a floating tale : 
To piece them together we never fail ; 
And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail. 
And so we have them all in hand, 
The lads and lasses throughout the land, 
And we are the masters, — you understand ? 
Cho, So always merry, Qs^c. 

Last night we had such a game of play 
With the nephews and nieces over the way, 



14 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part I 

All for the gold that belonged to the day 

That lies in lead till the judgment-day. 

The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch ; 

But we saved her share for old Mamma Church. 

How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch ! 

Cho. O ! always merry, and never drunk, 
TJiafs the life of the jolly monk ! 

Robert. The song is hardly to your taste, I see. 
Where shall I set the light? 

Julian. I do not need it. 

Robert. Come, come ! The dark is a hot-bed for 
fancies. 
I wish you were at table, were it only 
To stop the talking of the men about you. 
You in the dark are talked of in the light. 

yidian. Well, brother, let them talk ; it hurts not me. 

Robert. No ; but it hurts your friend to hear them 
say, 
You would be thought a saint without the trouble. 
You do no penance that they can discover ; 
You keep shut up, say some, eating your heart, 
Possessed with a bad conscience, the worst demon. 
You are a prince, say others, hiding here. 
Till circumstance that bound you, set you free. 



Scene I. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 15 

To-night, there ai'e some whispers of a lady 
That would refuse your love. 

Julian. Aye ! What of her ? 

Robert. I hear no more than so ; and that you came 
To seek the next best service you could find : 
Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's. 

Julian. One part at least is true : I knock at God's ; 
He has not yet been pleased to let me in. 
As for the lady — that is — so far true, 
But matters little. Had I less to do, 
This talking might annoy me ; as it is, 
Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it ; 
I keep in-doors. 

Robert. Gloomy as usual, brother ! 

Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send 
The light that all day long gladdened the earth, 
Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire 
Transformed the weathercock into a star, 
That you should gloom within stone walls all day. 
At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come : 
We will salute the breezes, as they rise 
And leave their lofty beds, laden with odors 
Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss ; 



l6 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part I. 

Imprisoned spirits, which Hfe-waking Spring 
Lets forth in vapor through the genial air. 
Come, we will see the sunrise ; watch the light 
Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak, 
And thence descend triumphant, step by step, 
The stairway of the hills. Free air and action 
Will soon dispel these vapors of the brain. 

yulian. My friend, if one should tell a homeless 
boy, 
" There is your father's house : go in and rest ; " 
Through every open room the child would go. 
Timidly looking for the friendly eye ; 
Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder 
At what he saw, until he found his sire. 
But gathered to his bosom, straight he is 
The heir of all ; he knows it 'midst his tears. 
And so with me : not having seen Him yet, 
The light rests on me with a heaviness ; 
All beauty wears to me a doubtful look ; 
A voice is in the wind I do not know ; 
A meaning on the face of the high hills 
Whose utterance I cannot comprehend. 
A something is behind them : that is God. 



Scene I. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 1/ 

These are his words, I doubt not, language strange ; 
These are the expressions of his shining thoughts; 
And He is present, but I find Him not. 
I have not yet been held close to his heart. 
Once in his inner room, and by his eyes 
Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these, 
'Mid sights familiar as a mother's smiles, 
And sounds that never lose love's mystery. 
Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him ! 

Robert {pointing to the Crucifix in a recess). See, 

there is God revealed in human form ! 
Julian {kneeli?ig and crossing). Alas, my friend ! — 

revealed — but as in nature : 

I see the man ; I cannot find the God. 

I know his voice is in the wind, his presence 

Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth ; 

And there stands Manhood : and the God is there, 

Not here, not here. 

[Pointing to his bosom. Seeing Robert's bewildered look, 
and changing his tone. 

You understand me not. 
Without my need, you cannot know my want. 
You will all night be puzzling to determine 



l8 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part I. 

With which of the old heretics to class me. 

But you are honest ; will not rouse the cry 

Against me. I am honest. For the proof, 

Such as will satisfy a monk, look here ! 

Is this a smooth belt, brother ? And look here ! 

Did one week's scourging seam my side like that ? 

I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show 

Things rightly hidden ; but in my heart I love you, 

And cannot bear but you should think me true. 

Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk 

Of penance ! Let them talk when they have tried. 

And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate. 

Let out one stray beam of its living light, 

Or humbled that proud / that knows not God. 

You are my friend : — if you should find this cell 

Empty some morning, do not be afraid 

That any ill has happened. 

Robert. Well, perhaps 

'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you, 
But I can keep your secret. God be with you. {Goes. 

Julian. Amen. — A good man ; but he has not 
waked. 
And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him. 



Scene I. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 19 

God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks ; 

And so he does, as possible for him. 

How he will wonder when he looks for heaven ! 

He thinks me an enthusiast, because 

I seek to know God, and to hear his voice 

Talk to my heart in silence ; as of old 

The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed, 

He lay communing with his heart ; and God 

With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until 

In his light he saw light. God speaks to men. 

My soul leans towards him ; stretches forth its arms, 

And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God ; 

And let me know the living Father cares 

For me, even me ; for this one of his children. — 

Hast thou no word for me ? I am thy thought. 

God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine, 

And let mine answer as a pulse to thine. 

See, I am low ; yea, very low ; but thou 

Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee. 

I am a child, a fool before thee, God ; 

Eut thou hast made my weakness as my strength. 

I am an emptiness for thee to fill ; 

My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie 



20 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part I 

Diffi;sed, abandoning myself to thee 

1 will look up, if life should fail in looking. 

Ah me ! A stream cut from my parent-spring ! 
Ah me ! A life lost from its father-life ! 



Scene II. — The refectory. The mojtks at table. A bi^zz of con- 
versation. Robert e7iters, wiping his forehead, as if he had 
just come in. 

Stephen {speaking across the table). You see, my 
friend, it will not stand to logic ; 
Or, if you like it better, stand to reason ; 
For in this doctrine is involved a cause 
Which for its very being doth depend 
Upon its own effect. For, don't you see. 
He tells me to have faith and I shall live ? 
Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall 
Be saved from hell by Him, and ta'en to heaven ; 
What is salvation else ? If I believe, 
Then He will save me. . . But this his will 
Has no existence till that I believe ; 
So there is nothing for my faith to rest on. 
No object for belief. How can I trust 
In that which is not ? Send the salad, Cosmo. 



Scene II. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 21 

Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence ; 
To all intents save one, most plenary — 
And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd. 

Monk. 'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown. 
And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling 
At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one 
Should find it poison. I have no pique at him — 
But there's that Julian — 

Stephen. Hush ! speak lower, friend. 

Two Monks ftiriher down the table — in a low tone. 

ist Monk. Where did you find her? 

2d Mo7ik. She was taken ill 

At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way, 
And so they called me in. I found her dying. 
But ere she would confess and make her peace. 
She begged to know i/ I had ever seen 
About this neighborhood, a tall dark man, 
Moody and silent, with a little stoop 
As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulder, 
And a strange look of mingled youth and age, — 

IS t Monk. Julian, by 

2d Monk. 'St — no names ! I had not seen him. 
I saw the death mist gathering in her eye, 



22 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part I. 

And urged her to proceed ; and she began ; 
But went not far before delirium came, 
With endless repetitions, hurryings forward, 
Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past 
Was running riot in her conquered brain ; 
And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group 
Held carnival ; went freely out and in. 
Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed 
As some confused tragedy went on ; 
Till suddenly the lights sunk out ; the pageant 
Went Yi^e a ghost ; the chambers of her brain 
Lay desolate and silent. I can gather 
This much, and nothing more. This Julian 
Is one of some distinction ; probably rich, 
And titled Count. He had a love-affair. 
In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly. 
Give me the woman ; love is troublesome. 
She loved him too, but false play came between, 
And used this woman for her minister ; 
Who never would have peached, but for a witness 
Hidden behind some curtains in her heart 
Of which she did not know. That same, her con- 
science, 



Scene II. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 23 

Has waked and blabbed so far; but must conclude 
Its story to some double-ghostly father, 
For she is ghostly penitent by this. 
Our consciences will play us no such tricks ; 
They are the Church's, not our own. We must 
Keep this small matter Becret. If it should 
Come to his ears, he'll soon bid us good-by — 
A lady's love before ten heavenly crowns ! 
And so the world will have the benefit 
Of the said wealth of his, if such there be. 
I have told you, old Godfrey ; I tell none else 
Until our Abbot comes. 

1st Monk. That is to-morrow. 

Another group near the bottom of the table, in which is Robert. 

ist Monk. 'Tis very clear there's something wrong 
with him. 
Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity, 
Which passes like a thought across his face, 
When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen, 
A while to our discourse ? — he never joins. 

2d Monk. I know quite well. I stood beside him 
once, 
Some of the brethren near ; Stephen was talking. 



24 WITPIIN AND WITHOUT. Part I. 

He chanced to say the words, Our Holy Faith. 
*' Faith indeed ! poor fools ! " fell from his lips, 
Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words 
Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure 
He is an atheist at the least. 

3// Motik {pale-faced aiid large eyed). And I 
Fear he is something worse. I had a trance 
In which the devil tempted me : the shape 
Was Julian's to the very finger-nails. 
Non nobis ^ Doinine I I overcame. 
I am sure of one thing — music tortures him : 
I saw him once, amidst the Gloria Pafri, 
When the whole chapel trembled in the sound. 
Rise slowly as in ecstasy of pain. 
And stretch his arms abroad, and clasp his hands, 
Then slowly, faintingly, sink on his knees. 

2d Monk. He does not know his rubric ; stands 
when others 
Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice 
With his missal upside down. 

4M Monk {plethoric and husky). He blew his nose 
Quite loud on last Annunciation-day, 
And choked our Lady's name in the Abbot's throat. 



Scene III. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 25 

Robert. When he returns, we must complain ; and 
beg 
He'll take such measures as the case requires. 

Scene III. —Julian's cell. An open chest. The lantern on a stool, 
its candle nearly bnrnt out. JULIAN lying on his bed, looking 
at the light. 

Julian. And so all growth that is not towards God 

Is growing to decay. All increase gained 

Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth. 

'Tis aspiration as that wick aspires, 

Towering above the light it overcomes. 

But ever sinking with the dying flame. 

let me live., if but a daisy's life ! 

No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence ! 
Wherefore wilt thou not hear me, Lord of me ? 
Have I no claim on thee ? True, I have none 
That springs from me, but much that springs from 

thee. 
Hast thou not made me ? Liv'st thou not in me ? 

1 have done nought for thee, am but a want ; 

But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims ; 
And this same need of thee, which thou hast given, 
Is a strong claim on thee to give thyself, 



26 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Paut I. 

And makes me bold to rise and come to thee. 
Through all my sinning thou hast not recalled 
This witness of thy fatherhood, to plead 
For thee with me, and for thy child with thee. 

Last night, as now, I seemed to speak with Him ; 
Or was it but my heart that spoke for Him ? 
" Thou mak'st me long," I said, " therefore wilt give ; 
My longing is thy promise, O my God. 
If, having sinned, I thus have lost the claim, 
Why doth the longing yet remain with me. 
And make me bold thus to besiege thy doors ? " 

I thought I heard an answer : " Question on. 
Keep on thy need ; it is the bond that holds 
Thy being yet to mine. I give it thee, 
A hungering and a fainting and a pain. 
Yet a God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead 
While this pain lives in thee. I bless thee with it. 
Better to live in pain than die that death." 

So I will live, and nourish this my pain j 
For oft it giveth birth unto a hope 
That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too. 
Softly I'll walk the earth ; for it is his. 
Not mine to revel in. Content I wait. 



Scene III. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 2/ 

A still small voice I cannot but believe, 
Says on within : God will reveal himself. 

I must go from this place. I cannot rest. 
It boots not staying. A desire lik'e thirst 
Awakes within me, or a new child-heart, 
To be abroad on the mysterious earth, 
Out with the moon in all the blowing winds. 

'Tis strange that dreams of her should come again. 
For many months I had not seen her form, 
Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past. 
Until I laid me down an hour ago \ 
When twice through the dark chamber, full of eyes, 
The dreamful fact passed orderly and true. 
Once more I see the house ; the inward blaze 
Of the glad windows half-quenched in the moon ; 
The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind, 
" Ah ! wake me not," which left them to their sleep, 
All save the poplar : it was full of joy. 
So that it could not sleep, but trembled on. 
Sudden as Aphrodite from the sea. 
She issued radiant from the pearly night. 
It took me half with fear — the glimmer and gleam 
Of her white festal garments, haloed round 



28 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part I. 

With denser nioonbeanis. On she came — and there 

I am hewiltlered. Sometliing I remember 

Of tlioui;lUs that choked the passages of sound, 

Hurrying forth without their pilot-words ; 

Of agony, as when a spirit seeks 

In vain to hold communion with a man ; 

A hand that would and would not stay in mine ; 

A gleaming of her garments far away ; 

And then I know not what. The moon was low% 

Ulien from the earth I rose ; my hair was wet, 

Dripping with dew — 

Enter Roi?ERT catitiously. 

Why, how now, Robert ? 

\Risiug on his clhcnv. 

Rohcrt (i^/d/inz/^i^ at tJie chcsi^. I see ; that's well. 

Are you nearly ready ? 
yuUan. \\\\\ ? What's the matter ? 
Rohcrt. You must go this night. 

If you would go at all. 

yulian. Why must T go ? 

Robert {tur;////i^ over the tJiin^s in the ehest). 

Here, put this coat on. Ah ! take that thing too. 
No more such head-gear ! Have you not a hat, 

[Civ;/^ to the' chest agiiiru 



Scene IV. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 29 

Or something for your Load ? There 's such a hubbub 
Got up about you ! The Abbot comes to-morrow. 
Julian. Ah, well ! I need not ask. I know it all. 
Robert. No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell 
you. 
Ten minutes more, they will be round to bar 
The outer doors ; and then — good-by, poor Julian ! 
Julian is rapidly changing his clothes. 
■Julian. Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, 
friend. 
Farewell 1 God bless you ! We shall meet again. 
Robert. Farewell, dear friend ! Keep far away from 
this. ^^'''' 

Julian follows him out of (he cell, step along a narrow 
passage to a door, which he opens slowly. He goes out, 
and closes the door behind him. 

Scene IN.— Night. The court of a country-inn. The Abbot, 
while his horse is brought out. 

Abbot. Now for a shrine to house this rich Ma 
donna. 
Within the holiest of the holy place ! 
I'll have it made in fashion as a stable, 



30 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 1 .rt I 

With porphyry pillars to a marble stall ; 

And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay 

Shall fill the silver manger for a bed, 

Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved 

By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem, 

And o'er him shall bend the Mother mild, 

In silken white, and coroneted gems. 

Glorious ! But wherewithal I see not now — 

The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant ; 

Nor know I any nests of money-bees 

That would yield half-contentment to my need. 

Yet will I trust and hope ; for never yet 

In journeying through this vale of tears have I 

Projected pomp that did not blaze anon. 

Scene V. — After midnight. Julian seated under a tree on the 

roadside. 

yulian. So lies my journey — on into the dark. 
WitJiout my will I find myself alive, 
And must go forward. Is it God that draws 
Magnetic all the souls unto their home. 
Travelling, they know not how, but unto God ? 
It matters little what may come to me 



Scene V. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 3 1 

Of outward circumstance, as hunger, thirst, 
Social condition, yea, or love or hate ; 
But what shall / be, fifty summers hence ? 
My life, my being, all that meaneth me^ 
Goes darkling forward into something — what ? 

God, thou knowest. It is not my care. 

If thou wert less than truth, or less than love. 

It were a fearful thing to be and grow 

We know not what. My God, take care of me. 

Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love 

Pervading and inspiring me, thy child. 

And let thy own design in me work on, 

Unfolding the ideal man in me ! 

Which being greater far than I have grown, 

1 cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine. 
One day, completed unto thine intent, 

I shall be able to discourse with thee ; 

For thy Idea, gifted with a self, 

Must be of one with the mind where it sprang, 

Ana fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts. 

Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand ; 

I ask not whither, for it must be on. 

This road will lead me to the hills, I think ; 

And there I am in safetv and at home. 



32 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part I. 

Scene VI, — The Abbofs room. The Abbot and one of the 
Monhs. 

Ahhof. Did she say yulian 1 Did she say the 

name ? 
Monk. She did. 

Abbot. What did she call the lady ? What ? 
Monk. I could not hear. 

Abbot. Nor where she lived ? 

Monk. Nor that. 

She was too wild for leading where I would. 

Abbot. So. Send Julian. One thing I need not 
ask : 
You have kept this matter secret ? 

Monk. Yes, my lord. 

Abbot. "Well, go, and send him hither. 

[MoNK.^r'w. 

Said I well, 
That wish would burgeon into pomp for me ? 
That God will hear his own elect who cry ? 
Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means 
That it shall draw the eyes by power of light ! 
So tender in conceit, that it shall draw 



Scene VI, WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 33 

The heart by very strength of delicateness, 
And move proud thought to worship ! 

I must act 
With caution now ; must win his confidence ; 
Question him of the secret enemies 
That fight against his soul ; and lead him thus 
To tell me, by degrees, his history. 
So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation 
For future acts, as circumstance requires. 
For if the tale be true that he is rich, 
And 

Reenter MONK in haste and terror. 
Monk. He 's gone, my lord ! His cell is empty. 
Abbot {starting up). What ! You are crazy ! Gone 1 

His cell is empty ! 
Monk. 'Tis true as death, my lord. 
Abbot. Heaven and hell ! It shall not be, I swear ! 
There is a plot in this ! You, sir, have lied ! 
Some one is in his confidence — who is it ? 
Go rouse the convent. \)Ao^v.goes. 

He must be followed, found. 
Hunt's up, friend Julian ! First your heels, old stag 1 
But by and by your horns, and then your side ! 
3 



34 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Pari L 

'Tis venison much too good for the world's eating. 
I'll go and sift tliis business to the bran. 
Robert and him I have sometimes seen together. 
God's curse ! it shall fare ill with any man 
That has connived at this, if I detect him. 

Scene Vn. — Afternoon. The mountains. Julian. 
yulia7t. Once more I tread thy courts, O God of 
heaven ! 
I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak 
Is miles away, and high amidst the clouds. 
Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit, 
With the fantastic rock upon its side. 
Stops the eye's flight from that high chamber-window 
Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze 
With wondering awe upon the mighty thing, 
Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied, 
The hitherto of my child thoughts. Beyond, 
A sea might roar around its base. Beyond, 
Might be the depths of the un fathomed space. 
This the earth's bulwark over the abyss. 
Upon its very point I have watched a star 
For a few moments crown it with a fire, 



Scene VII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 35 

As of an incense-offering that blazed 
Upon this mighty altar high uplift, 
And then float up the pathless waste of heaven. 
From the next window I could look abroad 
Over a plain unrolled, which God had painted 
With trees, and meadow-grass, and a large river, 
Where boats went to and fro like water-flies, 
In white and green ; but still I turned to look 
At that one mount, aspiring o'er its fellows : 
All here I saw — I knew not what was there. 

love of knowledge and of mystery, 
Striving together in the heart of man ! 

" Tell me, and let me know ; explain the thing." — 
Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round : 
" Alas ! I know it all ; its charm is gone ! " 
But I must hasten ; else the sun will set 
Before I reach the smoother valley-road. 

1 wonder if my old nurse lives ; or has 
Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think, 
Four years of wandering since I left my home, 
In sunshine and in snow, in ship and cell, 
Must have worn changes in this face of mine 
Sufficient to conceal me, if I will. 



36 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part I. 

Scene VIIL — A dungeon in the monastery. A ray of tJu moon 
on the floor. Robert. 

Robert. One comfort is, he's far away by this. 
Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin. 
Where shall I find a daysman in this strife 
Between my heart and holy Church's words ? 
Is not the law of kindness from God's finger, 
Yea, from his heart, on mine ? But then we must 
Deny ourselves ; and impulses must yield. 
Be subject to the written law of words ; 
Impulses made, made strong, that we might have 
Within the temple's court live things to bring 
And slay upon his altar ; that we may. 
By this hard penance of the heart and soul, 
Become the slaves of Christ. — I have done wrong ; 
I ought not to have let poor Julian go. 
And yet that light upon the floor says, yes — 
Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good. 
Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life 
That he might be in peace. Still up and down 
The balance goes, a good in either scale ; 
Two angels giving each to each the lie. 



Scene VIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 37 

And none to part them or decide the question. 
But still the wofds come down the heaviest 
Upon my conscience as that scale descends ; 
But that may be because they hurt me more, 
Being rough strangers in the feelings' home. 
Would God forbid us to do what is right, 
Even for his sake ? But then Julian's life 
Belonged to God, to do with as He pleases. 
I am bewildered. 'Tis as God and God 
Commanded different things in different tones. 
Ah ! then, the tones are different : which is likest 
God's voice ? The one is gentle, loving, kind. 
Like Mary singing to her mangered child ; 
The other like a self-restrained tempest ; 
Like — ah, alas ! — the trumpet on Mount Sinai, 
Louder and louder, and the voice of words. 

for some light ! Would they would kill me ; then 

1 would go up, close up, to God's own throne. 
And ask, and beg, and pray, to know the truth ; 
And He would slay this ghastly contradiction. 

I should not fear, for He would comfort me, 
Because I am perplexed, and long to know. 



38 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part I. 

But this perplexity may be my sin, 
And come of pride that will not yield to Him. 
O for one word from God ! his own, and fresh 
From Him to me ! Alas ! what shall I do ? 



END OF PART I. 



WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 

PART II. 

Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense ! 
It is thy Duty waiting thee without. 
Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt ; 
A hand doth pull thee — it is Providence ; 
Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence ; 
Go forth into the tumult and the shout ; 
Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about : 
Of noise alone is born the inward sense 
Of silence ; and from action springs alone 
The inward knowledge of true love and faith. 
Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath, 
And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan : 
One day upon His bosom, all thine own, 
Thou shalt he still, embraced in holy death. 



PART II. 

Scene I. — /4 room in Julian's castle. Julian and the old 

Nurse. 

Julian. "NT EMBRONI ? Count Nembroni ? — 
■*- ^ I remember : 

A man about my height, but stronger built ? 
I have seen him at her father's. There was something 
I did not Uke about him. — Ah ! I know : 
He had a way of darting looks at one, 
As if he wished to know you, but by stealth. 

Nurse. The same, my lord. He is the creditor. 
The common story is, he sought his daughter, 
But souglit in vain : the lady would not wed. 
'Twas rumored soon they were in grievous trouble, 
Which caused much wonder, for the family 
Was always counted wealthy. Count Nembroni 
Contrived to be the only creditor, 
And so imprisoned him. 

Julian. Where is the lady ? 



42 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

Nurse. Down in the town. 

yidian. But where ? 

Nurse. If you turn left, 

When you go through the gate, 'tis the last house 
Upon this side the way. An honest couple, 
Who once were almost pensioners of hers, 
Have given her shelter, till she find a home 
With distant friends. Alas, poor lady ! 'tis 
A wretched change for her. 

jfiilian. Hm ! ah ! I see. 

What kind of man is this Nembroni, Nurse ? 

Nurse. Here he is little known. His title comes 
From an estate, they say, beyond the hills. 
He looks ungracious : I have seen the children 
Run to the doors when he came up the street. 

yulian. Thank you. Nurse; you may go. Stay — 
one thing more. 
Have any of my people seen me ? 

Nurse. None. 

But me, my lord. 

jfulian. And can you keep it secret ? — 

I know you will for my sake. I will trust you. 
Bring me some supper ; I am tired and faint. 

[Nurse goes. 



Scene I. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 43 

Poor and alone ! Such a man has not laid 
Such plans for nothing further. I will watch him. 
Heaven may have brought me hither for her sake. 
Poor child ! I would protect thee as thy father, 
Who cannot help thee. Thou wast not to blame, 
My love had no claim on like love from thee. — 
How the old love comes gushing to my heart ! 

I know not what I can do yet but watch. 
I have no hold on him. I cannot go, 
Say, I suspect : and, Is it so or ?iot ? 
I should but injure them by doing so. 
True, I might pay her father's debts ; and will, 
If Joseph, my old friend, has managed well 
During my absence. / have not spent much. 
But still she'd be in danger from this man. 
If not permitted to betray himself; 
And I, discovered, could no more protect. 
Or if, unseen by her, I yet could haunt 
Her footsteps like an angel, not for long 
Should I remain unseen of other eyes, 
That peer from under cowls — not angel-eyes — 
Hunting me out, over the stormy earth. 

No ; I must watch. I can do nothing better. 



44 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part XL 

Scene II. — A poor cottage. An old Man ajtd Woman sitting 

together. 

Maft. How 's the poor lady now ? 

Woman. She's poorly still. 

I fancy every day she's growing thinner. 
I am sure she's wasting steadily. 

Man. Has the count 

Been here again to-day ? 

Wotnan. No. And I think 

He will not come again. She was so proud 
The last time he was here, you would have thought 
She was a queen at least. 

Man. Remember, wife, 

What she has been. Trouble and that throws down 
The common folk like us all of a heap : 
With folks like her, that are high bred and blood, 
It sets the mettle up. 

Woman. All very right ; 

But take her as she was, she might do worse 
Than wed the Count Nembroni. 

Man. Possible. 

But are you sure there is no other man 
Stands in his way t 



Scene III. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 45 

Woman. How can I tell ? So be, 

He should be here to help her. What she'll do 
I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her. 
And for her work, she does it far too well 
To earn a living by it. Her times are changed ^- 
She should not give herself such prideful airs. 

Man. Come, come, old wife ! you women are so 
hard 
On one another ! You speak fair for men. 
And make allowances ; but when a woman 
Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her. 
But where is this you're going then to-night .-* 
Do they want me to go as well as you ? 

Woman. Yes, you must go, or else it is no use. 
They cannot give the money to me, except 
My husband go with me. He told me so. 

Man. Well, wife, it's worth the going — just to 
see : 
I don't expect a groat to come of it. 

Scene III. — Kitchen of a small inn. HosT and Hostess. 
Host. That's a queer customer you've got up stairs ; 
What the deuce is he ? 



46 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

Hostess. What is that to us ? 

He always pays his way, and handsomely. 
I wish there were more like him. 

Host. Has he been 

At home all day ? 

Hostess. He has not stirred a foot 

Across the threshold. That's his only fault — 
He's always in the way. 

Host. What does he do ? 

Hostess. Paces about the room, or sits at the win- 
dow. 
I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard, 
To see what he's about : he looks annoyed, 
But does not speak a word. 

Host. He must be crazed, 

Or else in hiding for some scrape or other. 

Hostess. He has a wild look in his eye sometimes ; 
But sure he would not sit so much in the dark, 
If he were mad, or anything on his conscience ; 
And though he does not say much when he speaks 
A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way. 

Host. O ! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine 
come 1 



Scene V. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 47 

Scene IV. — The inn ; a room up stairs. Julian at the window , 
half hidden by the curtain. 

jfuliafi. With what profusion her white fingers spend 
Delicate motions on the insensate cloth ! 
It was so late this morning ere she came ! 
I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale ! 
Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely. 
Do I not love her more than when that beauty 
Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond 
The confines of her wondrous face and form, 
And animated with a present power 
The outmost folds and waves of drapery ? 

Ha ! there is something now : the old woman drest 
In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door. 
As for her husband. Something will follow this. 
And here he comes, all in his best like her. 
They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk, 
With short steps down the street. Now I must wake 
The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes ! 

Scene V. — A back street. Two Servants with a carriage and 
pair. 

1st Serv. Heavens, what a cloud ! as big as ^tna ! 

There ! 

That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head. 



48 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

I'll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say ; 
We'll have enough to do, if it should lighten. 

2d Serv. Such drops ! That's the first of it. I 
declare 
She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already, 
As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were 
Under some roof or other. I fear this business 
Is not of the right sort. 

\st Serv. He looked as black 

As if he too had lightning in his bosom. 
There ! Down, you brute ! Mind the pole, Beppo ! 

Scene VI. — Julian'' s room. Julian standing at the window, 
his face pressed against a patie. Stoi'ni and gathering dark- 
ness without. 

yulian. Plague on the lamp ! 'tis gone — no, there 

it flares ! 

I wish the wind would leave or blow it out. 

Heavens ! how it thunders ! This terrific storm 

Will either cow or harden him. I'm blind ! 

That lightning ! O, let me see again, lest he 

Should enter in the dark ! I cannot bear 

This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain 

Has blotted all my view with crossing lights. 



Scene VII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 49 

'Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over, 

And take my stand in the corner by the door. 

But if he comes while I go down the stairs, 

And I not see ? To make sure, I'll go gently 

Up the stair to the landing by her door. 

\^He goes quickly towards the door. 
Hostess {opening the door and looking in). If you please, 

gjj- \^He hurries past. 

The devil's in the man ! 

Scene VII. — The landing. 
. Voice within. If you scream, I must muffle you. 

Julian {rushing up the stair). He is there ! 

His hand is on her mouth ! She tries to scream ! 

[Flinging the door open, as Nembroni springs forward on 
the other side. 

Back! 

Nembroni. What the devil ! — Beggar ! 

[Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at Julian, which 

he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he 

springs within Nembroni's guard. 

Julian {taking him by the throat) . I have faced 

worse storms than you. [They struggle. 

Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force, 

[Stabbing him. 

4 



50 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

Your ribs will not mail your heart ! 

[Nembroni falls dead. Julian wipes his dagger on the 
dead mail's coat. 

If men will be devils, 
They are better in hell than here. 

[Lightning flashes on the blade 
What a night 
For a soul to go out of doors ! God in heaven ! 

[Approaching the lady within 
Ah ! she has fainted. That is well. I hope 
It will not pass too soon. It is not far 
To the half-hidden door in my own fence, 
And that is well. If I step carefully, 
Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale foot-prints. 
What ! blood ! He does not bleed much, I should 

think. 
O, I see ! it is mine — he has wounded me. 
That's awkward now. 

[ Taking a handkerchief from the floor by the wimloiv. 
Pardon me, dear lady ; 
[Tying the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm. 
'Tis not to save my blood I would defile 
Even your handkerchief. 

[Corning toavards the door, carrying her. 



Scene VIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 5 1 

I am pleased to think 
Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength. 

{Looking out of the window on the landing. 

For once, thank darkness ! 'Twas sent for us, not 

him. \_He goes down the stair. 

Scene VIII. — A room in the castle. Julian and the Nurse. 

Julian. Ask me no questions now, my dear old 
Nurse. 
You have put your charge to bed ? 

Nurse. Yes, my dear lord. 

Julian. And has she spoken yet ? 

Nurse. After you left, 

Her eyelids half unclosed ; she murmured once : 
Where am I, mother ? — then she looked at me. 
And her eyes wandered over all my face ; 
Till half in comifort, half in weariness, 
They closed again. Bless her, dear soul ! she is 
As feeble as a child. 

Julian. Under your care. 

She will recover soon. Let no one know 
She is in the house : — blood has been shed for her. 

Nurse. Alas ! I feared it ; for her dress is bloody. 



52 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

Julian. That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire. 
Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you. 

Nurse. Leave "i 

yulian. Yes. I am off to-night, wander- 

ing again 
Over the earth and sea. She must not know 
I have been here. You must contrive to keep 
My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke 
When a branch caught her ; but she could not see me. 
She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her. 
Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, 

Nurse. 
Let her on no pretense know where she is. 
Nor utter word that might awake a guess. 
When she is well and wishes to be gone. 
Then write to this address — but under cover 

[ Writing. 
To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I 
Will manage all the rest. But let her know 
Her father is set free ; assuredly, 
Ere you can give the news, it will be so. 

Nurse. How shall I best conceal her, my good lord ? 
Julian. I have thought of that. There's a deserted 
room 



Scene VIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 53 

In the old south wing, at the further end 
Of the oak gallery. 

Nurse. Not deserted quite. 

I ventured, when you left, to make it mine, 
Because you loved it when a boy, my lord. 

yulian. You do not know, Nurse, why I loved it 
though : 
I found a sliding panel, and a door 
Into a room behind. I'll show it you. 
You'll find some musty traces of me yet, 
When you go in. Now take her to your room. 
But get the other ready. Light a fire. 
And keep it burning well for several days. 
Then, one by one, out of the other rooms, 
Take everything to make it comfortable ; 
Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter, 
Bind her to be as secret as yourself. 
Then put her there. I'll let her father know 
She is in safety. I must change my clothes. 
And be far off or ever morning breaks. [Nurse goes, 

• My treasure-room ! how little then I thought, 
Glad in my secret, one day it would hold 
A treasure unto which I dared not come. 



54 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

Perhaps she'd love me now — a very little ? — 
But not with even a heavenly gift would I 
Go beg her love j that should be free as light, 
Cleaving unto myself even for myself 
I have enough to brood on, joy to turn 
Over and over in my secret heart : 
She lives, and is the better that I live. 

Reenter Nurse. 
Nurse. My lord, her mind is wandering ; she is 
raving ; 
She's in a dreadful fever. We must send 
To Arli for the doctor, else her life 
Will be in danger. 

yulian {rising disturbed). Go and fetch your daugh- 
ter. 
Take her at once to your own room, and there 
I'll see her. Can you manage it between you ? 
Nurse. O yes, my lord ; she is so thin, poor child ! 

[Nurse ^f^^j. 
yulian. I ought to know the way to treat a fever, 
If it be one of twenty. Hers has come 
Of low food, wasting, and anxiety. 
I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna. 



Scene IX. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 55 

Scene IX. — The Abbot's room in the monastery. The Abbot. 
Abbot. 'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet. 
One hope remains : we'll see what Stephen says. 

Enter Stephen. 
Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told 
You said to-day, if I commissioned you. 
You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave. 

Stephen. I did, my lord. 

Abbot. How would you do it, 

Stephen ? 

Stephe?u Try one plan till it failed ; then try another ; 
Try half a dozen plans at once ; keep eyes 
And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord : 
Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retrievei*. 
I have no plan ; but, give me time and money, 
I'll find him out. 

Abbot. Stephen, you're just the man 

I have been longing for. Get yourself ready. 



56 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

Scene X. — Towards morning. The Nurse's room. LiLlA in bed. 
Julian watching. 

jfulia7i. I think she sleeps. Would God it were so ; 
then 
She would do well.* What strange things she has 

spoken ! 
My heart is beating as if it would spend 
Its life in this one night, and beat it out. 
No wonder ! there is more of life's delight 
In one hour such as this than many years ; 
For life is measured by intensity, 
Not by the how much of the crawling clock. 

Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across 
The window-blind ? or is it but a band 
Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed 
Upon the other ? No ; it is the moon 
Low down in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this — 

Lilia {half asleep., wildly). If Julian had been here, 
you dared not do it — 
Julian ! Julian ! {Half rising 

yiilian {forgetting his caution^ and goifig up to her). 
I am here, my Lilia. No. 



Scene X. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 57 

Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream, 
A terrible dream. Gone now — is it not ? 

[SAe looks at him with wide restless eyes ; then sinks back on 
the pillow. He leaves her. 

How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me ! 
But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long 
She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead 
In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced, 
And leave her to console my solitude. 
Ah, what a joy ! I dare not think of it ! 
And what a grief! I will not think of that ! 
Love ? and from her ? my beautiful, my own ! 
O God, I did not know thou wert so rich 
In making and in giving. I knew not 
The gathered glory of this earth of thine. 
O ! wilt thou crush me with an infinite joy ? 
Make me a god by giving — making mine 
Thy centre-thought of living beauty ? — sprung 
From thee, and coming home to dwell with me ! 

\^He leans on the wall. 

Lilia {softly). Am I in heaven? There's some- 
thing makes me glad. 
As if I were in heaven ! Yes, yes, I am. 



/ 
/ 



58 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

I see the flashing of ten thousand glories ; 

I hear the trembling of a thousand wings, 

That vibrate music on the murmuring air ! 

Each tiny feather-blade crushes its pool 

Of circling air to sound, and quivers music. 

What is it, though, that makes me glad like this ? 

I knew, but cannot find it — I forget. 

It must be here — what was it ? Hark ! the fall, 

The endless going of the stream of life ! 

Ah me ! I thirst, I thirst, — I am so thirsty ! 

[Quej'ulously. 
[Julian gives her drink, stipporting her. She looks at him 
again, with large wondering eyes. 

Ah ! now I know — I was so very thirsty ! 

\He lays her down. She is comforted, and falls asleep. 
He extinguishes the light, and looks out of the ivindow. 

Julian. The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfort- 
less ; 
With an obtrusive / am written large 
Upon its face ! 

[Approaching the bed, and gazing on LiLiA silently with 
clasped hands ; then returni?ig to the window. 

She sleeps so peacefully ? 
O God, I thank thee : thou hast sent her sleep. 
Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain. 



Scene X. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 59 

Enter NuRSE. 
* 

Nurse, I'm glad you're come. She is asleep. 

You must be near her when she wakes again. 

1 think she'll be herself. But do be careful — 
Right cautious how you tell her I am here. 
Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep ! 

[Julian goes. 

Nurse. Bless her white face ! She looks just like 
my daughter, 
That's now a saint in heaven. Just those thin cheeks, 
And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes ! 
Go on, poor darling ! you are drinking life 
From the breast of Sleep. And yet I fain would see 
Your shutters open, for I then should know 
Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back. 
To peep at morning from her own bright windows. 
Ah, what a joy is ready, waiting her, 
To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams 
Have but betrayed her secrets honestly ! 
Will he not give thee love as dear as thine ? 



6o WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 



Scene XI. — A hilly road. Stephen, trudging alone, pauses to 
look around him. 

Stephen. Not a footprint ! not a trace that a blood- 
hound would nose at ! But Stephen shall be acknowl- 
edged a good dog and true. If I had him within 
stick-length — mind thy head, brother Julian ! Thou 
hast not hair enough to protect it, and thy tonsure 
shall not. Neither shalt thou tarry at Jericho. It is 
a poor man that leaves no trail ; and if thou wert poor, 
I would not follow thee. 



\Sings. 



O ! many a hound is stretching out 

His two legs or his four, 
Where the saddled horses stand about 

The court and the castle door ; 
Till out comes the baron, jolly and stout, 

To hunt the bristly boar. 

The emperor, he doth keep a pack 
In his antechambers standing, 

And up and down the stairs, good lack ! 
And eke upon the landing ; 

A straining leash, and a quivering back, 
And nostrils and chest expanding ! 

The devil a hunter long has been. 
Though Doctor Luther said it : 



I Scene XII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 6l 

Of his canon-pack he was the dean, 

And merrily he led it : 
To fatten them up, when game is lean 

He keeps his dogs on credit. 

Each man is a hunter to his trade, 

And they follow one another ; 
But such a hunter never was made 

As the monk that hunted his brother ! 
And the runaway pig, alive or dead, 

Shall be eaten by its mother. 

Better hunt a flea in a woolly blanket, than a leg- 
bail monk in this wilderness of mountains, forests, and 
precipices ! But the flea may be caught, and so shall 
the monk. I have said it. He is well spotted, with 
his silver crown, and his uncropped ears. The ras- 
cally vow-breaker! But his vows shall keep him, 
whether he keep them or not. The whining, blubber- 
ing idiot ! Gave his plaything, and wants it back ! — 
I wonder whereabouts I am. 



Scene XII. — The Nurse's room. LiLiA sitting up in bed. Ju- 
lian seated by her ; an open note in his hand. 

Lilia. Tear it up, Julian. 

Julian. No ; I'll treasure it 

As th6 remembrance of a by-gone grief: 
I love it well, because it is not yours. 



62 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

Lilia. Where have you been these long, long years 
away ? 
You look much older. You have suffered, Julian ! 
Jidian. Since that day, Lilia, I have seen much, 
thought much ; 
Suffered perhaps a little. But of this 
We'll say no more. When you are quite yourself, 
I'll tell you all you want to know about me. 

Lilia. Do tell me something now. I feel quite 
strong ; 
It will not hurt me. 

jfulian. Wait a day or two. 

Indeed 'twould weary you to tell you all. 

Lilia. And I have much to tell you, Julian. I 
Have suffered too — not all for my own sake. 

\^Recalling something. 

what a dream I had ! O Julian ! — 

1 don't know when it was. It must have been 
Before you brought me here : I am sure it was. 

yuliaii. Don't speak about it. Tell me afterwards. 
You must keep quiet now. Indeed you must. 
Lilia. I will obey you, and not speak a word. 



Scene XIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 63 

Enter NURSE. 
Nurse. Blessings upon her ! She's near well already. 
Who would have thought, three days ago, to see 
You look so bright ? My lord, you have done wonders. 
Julian. 'Tis not my work, dame. I must leave 
you now. 
To please me, Lilia, go to sleep awhile. 

[Julian goes. 
Lilia. Why does he always wear that curious cap ? 
Nurse. I don't know. You must sleep. 
Lilia. Yes. I forgot. 

oCENE XIII. — The Steward's room. JULIAN and the Steward. 
Papers on the table, which Julian has just finished exa?nining. 

Julian. Thank you much, Joseph ; you have done 

well for me. 
You sent that note privately to my friend ? 

Steward. I did, my lord; and have conveyed the 

money, 
Putting all things in train for his release, 
Without appearing in it personally, 
Or giving any clew to other hands. 
He sent this message by my messenger : 
His hearty thanks, and God will bless you for it. 



64 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

He will be secret. For his daughter, she 
Is safe with you as with himself; and so 
God bless you both ! He will expect to hear 
From both of you from England. 

jfulian. Well, again. 

What money is remaining in your hands ? 

Steward. Two bags, tliree hundred each ; that's all. 
I fear 
To wake suspicion, if I call in more. 

yulian. Quite right. One thing besides : lest a 
mischance 
Befall us, though I do not fear it much, — 
We have been very secret, — is that boat 
I had before I left, in sailing trim ? 

Steward. I knew it was a favorite with my lord ; 
I've taken care of it. A month ago 
With my own hands I painted it all fresh, 
Fitting new oars and rowlocks. The old sail 
I'll have replaced immediately ; and then 
'Twill be as good as new. 

yulian. That's excellent. 

Well, launch it in the evening. Make it fast 
To the stone steps behind my garden study. 



\ 



Scene XIV. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 6$ 

Stow in the lockers some sea-stores, and put 
The money in the old desk in the study. 

Steward. I will, my lord. It will be safe enough. 

Scene YAN. — A road near the town. A Wagoner. Stephen, 
in lay dress, coming up to him. 

Stephen. Whose castle's that upon the hill, good 

fellow ? 
Wagoner. It's present owner's of the Uglii ; 
They call him Lorenzino. 

Stephen. Whose is that 

Down in the valley ? 

Wagoner. That is Count Lamballa's. 

Stephen. What is his Christian name ? 
Wagoner. Omfredo. No. 

That was his fathers ; his is Julian. 
Stephen. Is he at home ? 

Wagoner. No, not for many a day. 

His steward, honest man, I know is doubtful 
Whether he be alive ; and yet his land 
Is better farmed than any in the country. 
Stephen. He is not married, then ? 
Wagoner. No. There's a gossip 

5 



66 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

Amongst the women — but who would heed their 

talking ? — 
That love half crazed, then drove him out of doors, 
To wander here and there, like a bad ghost, 
Because a silly wench refused him — fudge ! 

Stephen. Most probably. I quite agree with you. 
Where do you stop ? 

Wagoner. At the first inn we come to ; 

You'll see it from the bottom of the hill. 
There is a better at the farther end, 
But then the stabling is not near so good. 

Stephen. I must push on. Four legs can never go 
Down hill so fast as two. Good-morning, friend. 

Wagoner. Good- morning, sir. 

Stephen {aside). I take the other inn. 

Scene XV. — The Nurse's room. Julian and Lilia standing 
near the window. 

Julian. But do you really love me, Lilia? 

Lilia. Why do you make me say it so often, Julian ? 
You make me say I love you, oftener far 
Than you say you love me. 

yidian. Because mine seems 



Scene XV. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 6/ 

So much a love of mere necessity. 

I can refrain from loving you no more 

Than keep from waking when the sun shines full 

Upon my face. 

Lilia. And yet I love to say 

How, how I love you, Julian ! 

\Leans her head on his arm. JULIAN wijices a little. She 
raises her head and looks at him. 

Did I hurt you ? 
Would you not have me lean my head on you ? 

yulia?!. Come on this side, my love ; 'tis a slight 
hurt 
Not yet quite healed. 

Lilia. Ah, my poor Julian ! how ? 

I am so sorry ! O ! I do remember ! 
I saw it all quite plain ! It was no dream ! 
I saw you fighting ! But you did not kill him .? 

Julian {calmly^ hut drawing himself up). I killed him 

as I would a dog that bit you. 
Lilia {turning pale ^ and coverifig her face with her 
hands). O, that is dreadful ; there is blood 
on you ! 
Julian. Shall I go, Lilia ? 



68 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IT. 

Lilia. O no, no, no, do not. 

I shall be better presently. 

Julian. You shrink 

As from a murderer. 

Lilia. O no, I love you — 

Will never leave you. Pardon me, my Julian ; 
But blood is very dreadful. 

jfulian [draiving her close to hiui). My sweet Lilia, 
'Twas justly shed, for your defense and mine, 
As it had been a tiger that I killed. 
He had no right to live. Be at peace, darling ; 
His blood lies not on me, but on himself ; 
I do not feel its stain upon my conscience. 

\^A tap at the door. 

Enter NuRSE. 

Nurse. My lord, the steward waits on you, below. 

[Julian goes. 
You have been standing till you're faint, my lady. 
Lie down a little. There — I'll fetch you something. 



Scene XVI. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. ^ 69 

Scene XVI. — The Steward'' s room. Julian. The Steward. 

Julian. Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect 
To hear from you soon after my arrival. 
Is the boat ready.'' 

Steward, Yes, my lord ; afloat 

Where you directed. 

yulian. A strange feeling haunts me, 

As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast 
The chain around the post. Muffle the oars. 

Steward. I will, directly. \_Goes. 

Julian. How shall I manage it ? 

I have her father's leave, but have not dared 
To tell her all ; and she must know it first. 
She fears me half, even now : what will she think 
To see my shaven head "i My heart is free — 
I know that God absolves mistaken vows. 
I looked for help in the high search from those 
Vv^ho knew the secret place of the Most High. 
If I had known, would I have bound myself 
Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds 
Never a lark springs to salute the day .'* 
The loftiest of them dreamers ; and the best 



JO WirillN AND WnilOUT. Fart 11. 

Content with goodness growinj;- like moss on stones. 

It cannot bo Cnxl's will I slioukl bo such. 

Hut there was more: they virtually conilemncd 

Me in mv quest ; would have had me content 

To kneel with them around a wayside post, 

Nor heed the pointing- Iniger at its top? 

It was the dull abode of foolishness. 

Not such the house where God would train his chil- 

ihen. 
My very birth into a world of men 

Shows me the school where lie would have me learn ; 
Shows me the place oi penance ; shows the tield 
Where I must light and die victorious, 
Or vield and perish. True, I know not how 
This will tall out : He must direct my way. 
But then toi her — she cannot see all this; 
Words will not make it plain ; and if they would, 
The time is shorter than the words would need : 
This overshadowing bodes nearing ill. 
It miiy be only vapor, oi the heat 
Oi loo much joy engendered ; sudden fear 
That the fair gladness is too good to live : 
The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest, 



ScKNJiXVi. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 7I 

The deeper to the gulf the cliff goes down. 

But how will she receive it? Will she tiiirik 

i iiave been mocking her? How could 1 help it? 

Her illness and my danger ! But, indeed, 

So strong was I in truth, I never thought 

Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way. 

My love did make her so a part of me, 

I never dreamed she might judge otherwise. 

Until our talk of yesterday. And now 

Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me : 

To wed a monk will seem to her the worst 

Of crimes which in a fever one might dream. 

1 cannot take the truth, and, bodily, 

Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong. 

She loves me not as I love her. But always — 

There's Robert for an instance — I have loved 

A life for what it might become, far more 

Than for its present : there's a germ in her 

Of something noble, much beyond her now : 

Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not. 

This evening must decide it, come what will. 



J2 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

Scene XVII. — The inn ; the room which had been Julian's, 
Stephen, Host, and Hostess. Wine on the table. 

Stephen. Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass 
Then pass it to your husband, if you please. 

Hostess. I thank you, sir ; I hope it's to your taste ; 
My husband's choice is praised. I cannot say 
I am a judge m3'self. 

Host. I'm confident 

It needs but to be tasted. 

Stephen {tasting critically, then nodding). That is 
wine. 
I quite congratulate you, my good sir, 
Upon your exquisite judgment. 

Host. Thank you, sir. 

Stephen {to the Hostess). And so this man, you say, 
was here until 
The night the Count was murdered : did he leave 
Before or after that ? 

Hostess. I cannot tell. 

He left before it was discovered though. 
In the middle of the storm, like one possessed, 
He rushed into the street, half tumbling me 



Scene XVII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 73 

Headlong down stairs. He never came again. 
He had paid his bill that morning, luckily ; 
So joy go with him ! Well, he was an odd one. 

Stephen. What was he like, fair Hostess 1 

Hostess. Tall and dark 

And with a lowering look about his brows. 
He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil. 
One queer thing was, he always wore his hat, 
In-doors as well as out. I dare not say 
He murdered Count Nembroni ; but it was strange 
He always sat at that same window there, 
And looked into the street. 'Tis not as if 
There were much traffic in this village now ; 
These are. changed times ; but I have seen the day — 

Stephen. Excuse me ; you were saying that the man 
Sat at the window — 

Hostess. Yes ; even after dark 

He would sit on, and never call for lights. 
The first night, I brought candles, as of course ; 
He let me set them on the table, true ; 
But soon's my back was turned, he put them out. 

Stephen. Where is the lady ? 

Hostess. That's the strangest thing 



74 NMIHIX ANP WITHOV r. FAKrll. 

Of all the story : she has disappe;uod. 
As well as he. There lav the Count, stone dead, 
White as my apron. The whole house was empty, 
Just as I told you. 

S/i/'AtTM, Has no search boon made ? 

Ifosf. The closest search ; a thousand pieces otTered 
For any intormation that should lead 
To the murderer's capture. 1 believe his brother^ 
Who is his heir, they say, is still in town, 
Seeking in vain tor some intelligence. 

Sft'/A^yt. "Fis very odd ; the oddest thing I've heard 
For a long time. Send me a pen and ink ; 
I have to write some letters. 

JIosUss (n'sifi^). Thank you, sir, 

For your kind entertainment. You'll tind ink 
And paper on that table near the window. 

[ExittMf Host «'•».; Hostess. 

SU/A^t. We've t'ound the badger's hole ; we'll draw 
him next. He couldn't have gone far with her and 
not be seen, ^[y lite on it, there are plenty of holes 
and corners in the old house over the way. Run off 
with a wench I Holy brother Julian ! Contemptuous 
brother Julian ! Stand-by-thvself brother Julian ! Run 



Scene XVII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 75 

away with a wench at last ! Well, there's a downfall 1 
He'll be for marrying her on the sly, and away; — I 
know the old fox ; — for her conscience-sake, probably 
not for his. Well, one comfort is, it's damnation and 
no reprieve. The ungrateful, atheistical heretic ! As 
if the good old mother wasn't indulgent enough to the 
foibles of her children ! The worthy lady has winked 
so hard at her dutiful sons, that she's nearly blind with 
winking. There's nothing in a little affair with a girl 
now and then ; but to marry, and knock one's vows on 
the head ! Therein is displayed a little ancestral fact, 
as to a certain respectable progenitor, commonly por- 
trayed as the knight of the cloven foot. Keep back thy 
servant, etc. — Purgatory couldn't cleanse that; and 
more, 'twill never have the chance. Heaven be about 
us from harm ! Amen. I'll go find the new Count. 
The Church shall have the castle and estate ; Re- 
venge, in the person of the new Count, the body of 
Julian ; and Stephen may as well have the thousand 
pieces as not. 



76 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IT 

Scene XVIII. — AUght. The Nurse's roonu Lilia; to Juf 
Julian. 

Lilia. How changed he is ! Yet he looks very no- 
ble. 

Enter Julian. 

yulian. My Lilia, will you go to England with me ? 

Lilia. Julian, my father ! 

yuliafi. Not without his leave. 

He says, God bless us both. 

Lilia. Leave him in prison ? 

jfulian. No, Lilia ; he's at liberty and safe, 
And far from this ere now. 

Lilia. You have done this, 

My noble Julian. I will go with you 
To sunset, if you will. My father gone ! .. 
Julian, there's none to love me now but you. 
You ivill love me, Julian ? — always "i 

jfulian. I but fear 

That your heart, Lilia, is not big enough 
To hold the love wherewith my heart would fill it. 

Lilia. I know why you think that ; and I deserve it. 
But try me, Julian. I was very silly. 



Scene XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 77 

I could not help it. I was ill, you know j 
Or weak at least. May I ask you, Julian, 
How your arm is to-day ? 

jfulian. Almost well, child. 

'Twill leave an ugly scar, though, I'm afraid. 

Lilia. Never mind that, if it be well again. 

yulian. I do not mind it ; but when I remember 
That I am all yours, then I grudge that scratch 
Or stain should be upon me — soul, body, yours. 
And there are more scars on me now than I 
Should like to make you own, without confession. 

Lilia, My poor, poor Julian ! Never think of it ; 

\Piitting her arms rotcnd him. 

I will but love you more. I thought you had 

Already told me suffering enough ; 

But not the half, it seems^ of your adventures. 

You have been a soldier ! 

yulian. I have fought, my Lilia. 

I have been down amongst the horses' feet ; 

But strange to tell, and harder to believe. 

Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood 

Sav^ what I lifted from the gory ground. 

{Sighing 



78 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

My wounds are not of such. 

[LiLiA, loosening her arms^ and drawing back a little 
with a kind of shrinking, looks a frightened inter- 
rogation. 

No. Penance, Lilia ; 

Such penance as the saints of old inflicted 

Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know ; 

As a lord would exalt himself, by making 

His willing servants into trembling slaves. 

Yet 1 have borne it. 

Lilia {laying her ha?id on his arm). Ah, alas, my 

Julian ! 

You have been guilty. 

Julian. Not what men call guilty, 

Save it be now ; now you will think I sin. 

Alas, I have sinned much ! but not in this. 

Lilia, I have been a monk. 

Lilia. A monk ! {Tnming pale- 

I thought — [Faltering. 

Julian, — I thought you said . . . did you not 

say . . . ? [Very pale, brokenly. 

I thought you said . . . [With an effort. 

I was to be your wife ! 

[Covering her fare with her hands, and bursting into tears. 



Scene XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 79 

yulian {speaking low afid in pain). And so I did. 
Lilia {hopefully and looking up). Then you've had 

dispensation ? 
Julian. God has absolved me, though the Church 
will not. 
He knows it was in ignorance I did it. 
Rather would He have men to do his will, 
Than keep a weight of words upon their souls, 
Which they laid there, not graven by his finger. 
The vow was made to him — to him I break it. 

Lilia {weeping bitterly). I would . . . your words 
were true . . . but I do know . . . 
It never can ... be right to break a vow ; 
If so, men might be liars every day ; 
You'd do the same by me, if we were married. 

Julian {in anguish). 'Tis ever so. Words are the 
living things ! 
There is no spirit — save what's born of words ! 
Words are the bonds that of two souls make one ! 
Words the security of heart to heart ! 
God, make me patient ! God, I pray thee, God ! 
Lilia {not heeding him). Besides, we dare not ; you 
would find the dungeon 



So AVITHIX AND WITHOUT. Part IL 

Gave late repentance ; I should weep away 
]\Iy life within a convent. 

Julian. Come to England, 

To England, Lilia. 

Li/ia. Men would point, and say : 

There go the vionk and his wife ; if they, in truth, 
Called me not by a harder name than that. 

yulian. There are no monks in England. 

Lilia. But will that 

Make right what's wrong ? 

yulian. Did I say so, my Lilia ? 

I answered but your last objections thus ; 
I had a ditlerent answer for the tirst. 

Lilia. Xo. no : I cannot, cannot, dare not do it. 

yulian. Lilia. you will not doubt my love ; you 
cannot. 
I would have told you all before, but thought. 
Foolish!}', you would feel the same ^s I : — 
I have lived longer, thought more, seen much mo :e ; 
I would not hurt your body, less your soul, 
For all the blessedness your love can give : 
For love's sake weigh the weight of what I say. 
Think not that must be right which you have heard 
From infancv — it max 



Scene XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 8 1 

Enter the Steward in haste, pale, breathless, and bleeding. 
Steward. My lord, there's such an uproar in the 
town ! 
They call you murderer and heretic. 
The officers of justice, with a monk, 
And the new Count Nembroni, accompanied 
By a fierce mob with torches, howling out 
For justice on you, madly cursing you ! 
They caught a glimpse of me as I returned, 
And stones and sticks flew round me like a storm ; 
But I escaped them, old man as I am. 
And was in time to bar the castle-gates. 
Would Heaven we had not cast those mounds, and 

shut 
The river from the moat ! [Distant yells and cries. 

Escape, my lord ! 
Julian (calmly). Will the gates hold them out awhile, 
my Joseph ? 
Steward. A little while, my lord ; but those damned 
torches ! 
O for twelve feet of water round the walls ! 

yulian. Leave us, good Joseph ; watch them from a 
window, 



82 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

And tell us of their progress. 

[Joseph o-oes. Sounds approach. 
Farewell, Lilia ! 
[Ptitting his arm rotcnd her. She stands like stone. 
Fear of a coward's name shall not detain me. 
My presence would but bring down evil on you, 
My heart's beloved ; yes, all the ill you fear, 
The terrible things that you have imaged out 
If you fled with me. They will not hurt you. 
If you be not polluted by my presence. 

[Light from without flares on the wail. 
They've fired the gate. [An outburst of nmtgled cries. 

Steward {entering). They've fired the gate, my lord ! 
Julian. Well, put yourself in safety, my dear 
Joseph. 
You and old Agata tell all the truth. 
And they'll forgive you. It will not hurt me ; 
I shall be safe — you know me — never fear. 

Steward. God grant it may be so. Farewell, dear 

lord ! [Is going. 

Julian. But add, it was in vain ; for the signora 
Would not consent ; therefore I fled alone. 

[Lilia stamis as before. 



Scene XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 83 

Steward. It is loo true. Good-by good-by, my mas- 
ter ! \Goes 
yuUan. Put your arms round me once, my Lilia. 

What ! not once ? not once at parting ? 

{^Rushing feet up the stairs, and along the galleries. 

O God ! farewell ! 

\_He clasps her to his heart; leaves her ; pushes back the panel, 

flings open the door, enters, and closes them behind. 

LiLiA starts suddenly from her fixed bewilderment, and 

flies after him, but forgets to close the sliding panel. 

Her voice from the imier room, calling. 

Lilia. Julian ! Julian ! 

\The trampling of feet and clamor of voices. The door of 
the room is flung open. Enter the foremost of the 
mob. 
ist. I was sure I saw light here. There it is, burn- 
ing still. 
2d. Nobody here ! Praise the devil ! he minds his 

own. Look under the bed, Gian. 
3^. Nothing there. 

4M. Another door ! Another door ! He'll soon be 
in hell if he's there. {As he tries to ope?t the door) 
The devil had better leave him, to make up the fire at 
home — he'll be cold by and by. {Rushes into the 
iftner room.) Follow me, boys ! l'^^^' rest follow. 



84 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

Voices fj'Oin within. I have him. I have him. 

Curse your claws ! Why do you fix on me, you crab ? 

You won't pick up the fiend-spawn so easily, I can tell 

you. Bring the light there, will you ? {One runs out 

for the light.) A trap ! a trap ! and a stair, down in 

the wall ! the hell-faggot's gone ! After him, after him, 

like storm-drift ! 

{Sound of descending footsteps. Others rush in with torches 
and follow. 

Scene XIX. — The river-side. Lilia seated in the boat ; Julian 

handing her the bags. 

I 

Julian. There, my love — take care, — 'tis heavy. 
Put them right in the middle^of the boat: 
'Tis excellent ballast. 

\A loud shout. He steps in and casts the chain loose, then 
pushes gently off. 

Look how the torches gleam 

Amongst the trees. Thank God, we have escaped ! 

\He roius szuiftly off. The torches come nearer, with cries op 
search. 

{In a low tone.) Slip down, my Lilia; lie at full 
length 



Scene XIX. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 85 

In the bottom of the boat ; your dress is white, 

And would return the torches' glare. I fear 

The damp night-air will hurt you, dressed like this. 

\Pulling off his coaty and wrapping her in it. 

Now for a strong pull with my muffled oars ! 
The water mutters Spanish in its sleep. 
My beautiful ! my bride ! my spirit's wife ! 
God-given, and God-restored ! my heart exults, 
Dancing round thee, my beautiful ! my soul ! 
Qnce round the headland, I will set the sail ; 
And the fair wind blows right adown the stream. 
Dear wind, dear stream, dear stars, dear heart of all, 
White angel lying in my little boat ! 
Strange that my boyhood's skill with sail and helm. 
Oft steering safely 'twixt the winding banks. 
Should make me rich with womanhood and life ! 

[ The boat disappears round the headland. Julian singing in 
his heart. 

SONG. 

Thou hast been blowing leaves, O wind of strife ! 

Wan, curled, boat-like leaves, that ran and fled ; 
Unresting yet, though folded up from life ; 

Sleepless, though cast among the unwaking dead. 
Out to the ocean fleet and float ; 
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. 



86 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part II. 

. O wind of strife ! to us a wedding wind ! 
O cover me with kisses of her mouth ; 
Blow thou our souls together, heart and mind ; 
To narrowing northern lines, blow from the south. 
Out to the ocean fleet and float ; 
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. 

Thou hast been blowing many a drifting thing 

From circling cove down to the unsheltered sea ; 
Thou blowest to the sea my blue sail's wing, 
Us to a new love-lit futurity. 

Out to the ocean fleet and float. 
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. 



END OF PART II. 



WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 
PART III. 

And weep not, though the Beautiful decay 

Within thy heart, as daily in thine eyes ; 

Thy heart must have its autumn, its pale skies, 
Leading, mayhap, to winter's dim dismay. 
Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pass away ; 

Her form departs not, though her body dies. 

Secure beneath the earth the snowdrop lies. 
Waiting the spring's young resurrection-day. 
Through the kind nurture of the winter cold. 

Nor seek thou by vain effort to revive 

The summer time, when roses were alive ; 
Do thou thy work — be willing to be old : 
Thy sorrow is the husk that doth enfold 

A gorgeous June, for which thou need'st not strive. 



PART III. 

Time ; Five years later. 

Scene I. — Night. London. A large meattly furnished room ; 
a single candle on the table ; a child asleep ift a little crib, 
Julian fits by the table, reading in a Icnv voice out of a book. 
He looks older, and his hair is lined %uith gray ; his eyes look 
clearer. 



W 



yuUan. \ '\ T^HAT is this ? let me see ; 'tis called 
" The Singer : " 



'fc>^ 



" Melchah stood looking on the corpse of his son, and spoke 
not. At length he broke the silence and said : ' He hath told 
his tale to the Immortals.' Abdiel, the friend of him that was 
dead, asked him what he meant by the words ? The old man, 
still regarding the dead body, spake as follows : — 

" Three years ago, I fell asleep on the summit of the hill Ya- 
rib ; and there I dreamed a dream. I thought I lay at the foot 
of a cliff, near the top of a great mountain ; for beneath me were 
the clouds, and above me, the heavens deep and dark. And I 
heard voices sweet and strong ; and I lifted up my eyes, and lo ! 
over against me, on a rocky slope, some seated, each on his own 
crag, some reclining between the fragments, I saw a hundred ma- 
jestic forms, as of men who had striven and conquered. Then 
I heard one say : * What wouldst thou sing unto us, young 
man ? ' A youthful voice replied, tremblingly : * A song which 



90 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

I have made for my .singing.' * Come, then, and I will lead thee 
to the hole in the rock : enter and sing.' From the assembly 
came forth one whose countenance was calm unto awfulness ; 
but whose eyes looked in love, mingled with doubt, on the face 
of a youth whom he led by the hand towards the spot where I 
lay. The features of the youth I could not discern ; either it 
was the indistinctness of a dream, or I was not permitted to be- 
hold them. And lo ! behind me was a great hole in the rock, 
narrow at the entrance, but deep and wide within ; and when 
I looked into it I shuddered ; for I thought I saw, far down, the 
glimmer of a star. The youth entered and vanished. His guide 
strode back to his seat, and I lay in terror near the mouth of the 
vast cavern. When I looked up once more, I saw all the men 
leaning forward, with head aside, as if listening intently to a far- 
off sound. I likewise listened ; but though much nearer than 
they, I heard nothing ; but I could see their faces change, like 
waters in a windy and half-cloudy day. Sometimes, though I 
heard nought, it seemed to me as if one sighed and prayed be- 
side me ; and once I heard a clang of music triumphant in hope ; 
but I looked up, and lo ! it was the listeners who stood on their 
feet and sang. They ceased, sat down, and listened as before. 
At last one approached me, and I ventured to question him. 
' Sir,' I said, ' wilt thou tell me what it means .'' ' And he an- 
swered me thus : ' The youth desired to sing to the Immortals. 
It is a law with us that no one shall sing a song who cannot be 
the hero of his tale — who cannot live the song that he sings ; 
for what right hath he else to devise great things, and to take 
holy deeds in his mouth ? Therefore he enters the cavern where 
God weaves the garments of souls, and there he lives in the 
forms of his own tale ; for God gives them being that he may be 
tiied. The sighs which thou didst hear were his longings after 
his own Ideal ; and thou didst hear him praying for the Truth 
he beheld, but could not reach. We sang, because in his first 
great battle, he strove well and overcame. We await the next.' 



Scene I. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 91 

A deep sleep seemed to fall upon me ; and when I awoke, I saw 
the Immortals standing with their eyes fixed on the mouth of 
the cavern. I arose and turned towards it likewise. The youth 
came forth. His face was worn and pale, as that of the dead 
man before me ; but his eyes were open, and tears trembled 
within them. Yet not the less was it the same face, the face 
of my son, I tell thee ; and in joy and fear I gazed upon him. 
With a weary step he approached the Immortals. But he who 
had led him to the cave hastened to meet him, spread forth his 
arms and embraced him, and said unto him : ' Thou hast told 
a noble tale ; sing to us now what songs thou wilt.' Therefore 
said I, as I gazed on my son : * He hath told his tale to the 
Immortals.' " 

\^He puts the book down ; meditates awhile ; then rises and 
walks up and down the rooi7i. 

And so five years have poured their silent streams, 
Flowing from fountains in eternity, 
Into my soul, which, as an infinite gulf. 
Hath swallowed them ; whose living caves they feed ; 
And time to spirit grows, transformed and kept. 
And now the day draws nigh when Christ was 

born ; 
The day that showed how like to God himself 
Man had been made, since God could be revealed 
By one that was a man with men, and still 
Was one with God the Father ; that men might 
By drawing nigh to Him draw nigh to God, 



92 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

Who had come near to them in tenderness. 

God ! I thank thee for the friendly eye, 
That oft hath opened on me these five years ; 
Thank thee for those enlightenings of my spirit, 
That let me know thy thought was towards me ; 
Those moments fore-enjoyed from future years, 
Telling what converse I should hold with God. 

1 thank thee for the sorrow and the care. 

Through which they gleamed, bright phosphorescent 

sparks 
Crushed from the troubled waters, borne on which 
Through mist and dark my soul draws nigh to thee. 
Five years ago, I prayed in agony 
That thou wouldst speak to me. Thou wouldst not 

then. 
With that close speech I craved so hungrily. 
Thy inmost speech is heart embracing heart ; 
And thou wert all the time instructing me 
To know the language of thy inmost speech. 
I thought thou didst refuse, when every hour 
Thou spakest every word my heart could hear, 
Though oft I did not know it was thy voice. 
My prayer arose from lonely wastes of soul ; 



Scene I. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 93 

As if a world far-off in depths of space, 

Chaotic, had implored that it might shine 

Straightway in sunlight as the morning star. 

My soul must be more pure, ere it could hold 

With thee communion. 'Tis the pure in heart 

That shall see God. As if a well that lay 

Unvisited, till water-weeds had grown 

Up from its depths, and woven a thick mass 

Over its surface, could give back the sun ! 

Or, dug from ancient battle-plain, a shield 

Could be a mirror to the stars of heaven ! 

And though I am not yet come near to Him, 

I know I am more nigh ; and am content 

To walk a long and weary road to find 

My Father's house once more. Well may it be 

A long and weary — I had wandered far. 

My God, I thank thee, thou dost care for me. 

I am content, rejoicing to go on. 

Even when my home seems very far away ; 

For over grief, and aching emptiness, 

And fading hopes, a higher joy arises. 

In cloudiest nights, one lonely spot is bright. 

High overhead, through folds and folds of space ; 



94 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

It is the earnest-star of all my heavens ; 
And tremulous in the deep well of my being 
Its image answers, gazing eagerly. 

Alas, my Lilia ! But I'll think of Jesus, 
Not of thee now ; Him who hath led my soul 
Thus hr upon its journey home to God. 
By poor attempts to do the things He said, 
Faith has been born ; free will become a fact ; 
And love grown strong to enter into his, 
And know the spirit that inhabits there. 
One day his truth will spring to life in me, 
And make me free, as God says " I am free." 
When I am like Him, then my soul will dawn 
With the full glory of the God revealed — 
Full as to me, though but one beam from Him ; 
The light will shine, for I shall comprehend it : 
In his light I shall see light. God can speak, 
Yea, Ti'/7/ speak to me then, and I shall hear. 
Not yet like Him, how can I hear his words ? 

[Stopping by the crib, and bending cn-er the child 

My darling child ! God's little daughter, drest 
In human clothes, that light may thus be clad 
In shining, so to reach my human eyes ! 



Scene I. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 95 

Come as a little Christ from heaven to earth, 
To call n\Qfat/ier, that my heart may know 
\N\\:ii father means, and turn its eyes to God ! 
Sometimes I feel, when thou art clinging to me, 
How all unfit this heart of mine to have 
The guardianship of a bright thing like thee, 
Come to entice, allure me back to God 
By flitting round me, gleaming of thy home, 
And radiating of thy purity 
Into my stained heart ; which unto thee 
Shall ever show the flither, answering 
The divine childhood dwelling in thine eyes. 
O how thou teachest me with thy sweet ways, 
AJl ignorant of wherefore thou art come, 
And what thou art to me, my heavenly ward. 
Whose eyes have drunk that secret place's light. 
And pour it forth on me ! God bless his own ! 

\^ffe resumes his walk, singhig in a low voice 



My child woke crying from her sleep : 

I bended o'er her bed, 
And soothed her, till in slumber deep 

She from the darkness fled. 



g6 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

And as beside my child I stood, 
A still voice said in me, — 
" Even thus thy Father, strong and good, 
Is bending over thee." 

Scene II. — Rooms in Lord Sc\:forirs house. A large company: 
dancers ; gentlemen looking on. 

IS/ Gentleman. Henry, what dark-haired queen is 
that .'* She moves 
As if her body were instinct with thought, 
Moulded to motion by the music's waves, 
As floats the swan upon the swelling lake ; 
Or as in dreams one sees an angel move, 
Sweeping on slow wings through the buoyant air. 
Then folding them, and turning on his track. 

2d. You seem inspired : nor can I wonder at it ; 
She is a glorious woman ; and such eyes ! 
Think — to be loved by such a woman now ! 

\st. You have seen her, then, before ; what is her 
name ? 

2d. I saw her once ; but could not learn her name. 

-Xfd. She is the wife of an Italian count, 
Who for some cause, political I think, 
Took refuge in this country. His estates 
The Church has eaten up, as I have heard : 
Mephisto says the Church has a good stomach. 



Scene III. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 97 

2d. How do they live ? 

2yd. Poorly, I should suppose ; 

For she gives Lady Gertrude music-lessons : 
That's how they know her. Ah, you should hear her 
sing ! 

2d. If she sings as she looks, or as she dances, 
It were as well for me I did not hear. 

3^. If Count Lamballa followed Lady Seaford 
To heaven, I know who'd follow her on earth. 

Scene III. — JuIudCs room. Julian ; Lily asleep. 

yulian. I wish she would come home. When the 
child wakes, 
I cannot bear to see her eyes first rest 
On me, then wander searching through the room ; 
And then return and rest. And yet, poor Lilia ! 
'Tis nothing strange thou shouldst be glad to go 
From this dull place, and for a few short hours 
Have thy lost girlhood given back to thee ; 
For thou art very young for such hard things 
As poor men's wives in cities must endure. 

I am afraid the thought is not at rest, 
7 



98 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

But rises still, that she is not my wife — 
Not truly, lawfully. I hoped the child 
Would kill that fancy ; but I fear instead. 
She thinks I have begun to think the same — 
Thinks that it lies a heavy weight of sin 
Upon my heart. Alas, my Lilia ! 
When every time I pray, I pray that God 
Would look and see that thou and I be one ! 

Lily {starting up in her crib). O, take me ! take 

me ! 
yulian (going up to her with a smi/c^. What is the 

matter with my little child ? 
Zi/j'. I don't know, father ; I was very frightened. 
jfulian. 'Twas nothing but a dream. Look — I am 

with you. 
Lily. I am wake now ; I know you're there ; but 
then 
I did not know it. [Smiling. 

Julian. Lie down, then, darling. Go to sleep 

again. 
Lily (beseechingly). Not yet. I will not go to sleep 
again ; 
It makes me so, so frightened. Take me up, 



Scene III. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 99 

And let me sit upon your knee. Where's mother ? 
I cannot see her. 

yiilian. She's not at home, my child ; 

But soon she will be back. 

Lily. But if she walk 

Out in the dark streets — so dark^ it will catch her. 
yulian. She will not walk; — but what would catch 

her, sweet ? 
Lily. I don't know. Tell me a story till she 

comes. 
jfulian {taking her, a?id sitting with her on his knees 
by the fire). Come then, my little Lily, — 
I will tell you 
A story I have read this very night. 

\She looks in his face. 
There was a man who had a little boy, 
And when the boy grew big, he went and asked 
His father to give him a purse of money. 
His fiither gave him such a large purse full ! 
And then he went away and left his home. 
You see he did not love his father much. 

Lily. O ! didn't he ? If he had he wouldn't have 
gone. 



100 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

yulian. Away he went, far, far away he went. 
Until he could not even spy the top 
Of the great mountain by his father's house. 
And still he went away, away, as if 
He tried how far his feet could go away ; 
Until he came to a city huge and wide, 
Like London here. 

Lily, Perhaps it was London, 

yulian. Perhaps it was, my child. And there he 
spent 
All, all his father's money, buying things 
That he had always told him were not worth, 
And not to buy them ; but he would and did. 

Lily. How very naughty of him ! 

yulian. Yes, my child. 

And so when he had spent his last few pence. 
He grew quite hungry. But he had none left 
To buy a piece of bread. And bread was scarce ; 
Nobody gave him any. He had been 
Always so idle, that he could not work. 
But at last some one sent him to feed swine. 

Lily. Swine/ 

yulian. Yes, swine : 'twas all that he could do ; 



Scene III. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. lOI 

And he was glad to eat some of their food. 

[She stares at him. 
But at the last, hunger and waking love 
Made him remember his old happy home. 
'• How many servants in my father's house 
Have plenty, and to spare ! " he said. '^ I'll go 
And say, ' I have done very wrong, my father ; 
I am not worthy to be called your son ; 
Put me among your servants, father, please.' " 
Then he rose up and went ; but thought the road 
So much, much farther to walk back again, 
When he was tired and hungry. But at last 
He saw the blue top of the great big hill 
That stood beside his father's house ; and then 
He walked much faster. But a great way off. 
His father saw him coming, lame and weary 
With his long walk ; and very different 
From what he had been. All his clothes were hang- 
ing 
In tatters, and his toes stuck through his shoes — 

[She bursts into tears. 

Lily {sobbing). Like that poor beggar I saw yester- 
day ? 



102 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

yuUan. Yes, my clear child. 

Lily. And was he dirty, too ? 

yulian. Yes, very dirty; he had been so long 
Among the swine. 

Lily. Is it all true though, fiither ? 

yulian. Yes, my darling ; all true, and truer far 
Than you can think. 

Lily. What was his father like .'' 

yuliafi. A tall, grand, stately man. 

Lily. Like you, dear father t 

yidia?i. Like me, only much grander. 

Lily. I love you 

The best though. [Kissing him. 

yulian. Well, all dirty as he was. 

And thin, and pale, and torn, with staring eyes, 
His father knew him, the first look, far off, 
And ran so fast to meet him ! put his arms 
Around his neck and kissed him. 

Lily. O, how dear ! 

I love him too ; — but not so well as you. 

[Sound of a carriage drazving up. 

yulian. There is your mother. 

Lily. I am glad, so glad 1 



Scene IV. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 103 

Enter LiLlA, looking pale. 
Lilia. You naughty child, why are you not in bed ? 
Lily {pouting). I am not naughty. I am afraid to 
go, 
Because you don't go with me into sleep ; 
And when I see things, and you are not there, 
Nor father, I am so frightened, I cry out, 
And stretch my hands, and so I come awake. 
Come with me into sleep, dear mother ; come. 
Lilia. What a strange child it is ! There, 

{kissing her) go to bed. ^Laying her down. 

Julian {gazing on the child). As thou art in thy 
dreams without thy mother, 
So are we lost in life without our God. 

Scene IV. — Lilia in bed. The room lighted from a gas-lamp in 
the street ; the bright shadow of the window on the wall and 
ceiling. 

Lilia. O, it is dreary, dreary ! All the time 
My thoughts would wander to my dreary home. 
Through every dance, my soul walked evermore 
In a most dreary dance through this same room. 
I saw these walls, this carpet ; and I heard, 
As now, his measured step in the next chamber, 



I04 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III 

Go pacing up and down, and I shut out ! 

He is too good for me, I weak for him. 

Yet if he put his arms around me once, 

And held me fast as then, kissed me as then, 

My soul, I think, would come again to me, 

And pass from me in trembling love to him. 

But he repels me now. He loves me, true, — 

Because I am his wife : he ought to love me ; 

Me, the cold statue, thus he drapes with duty. 

Sometimes he waits upon me like a maid. 

Silent with watchful eyes. O ! would to Heaven, 

He used me like a slave bought in the market ! 

Yes, used me roughly ! So, I were his own ; 

And words of tenderness would falter in, 

Relenting from the sternness of command. 

But I am not enough for him : he needs 

Some high-entranced maiden, ever pure. 

And thronged with burning thoughts of God and him. 

So, as he loves me not, his deeds for me 

Lie on me like a sepulchre of stones. 

Italian lovers love not so ; but he 

Has German blood in those great veins of his. 

He never brings me now a little flower. 



Scene IV. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 10$ 

He sings low wandering sweet songs to the child ; 
But never sings to me what the voice-bird 
Sings to the silent, sitting on the nest. 
I would I were his child, and not his wife ! 
How I should love him then 1 Yet I have thoughts 
Fit to be women to his mighty men ; 
And he would love them, if he saw them once. 
Ah, there they come, the visions of my land ! 
The long sweep of a bay, white sands, and cliffs 
Purple above the blue waves at their feet. 
Down the full river comes a light-blue sail ; 
And down the near hill-side come country girls, 
Brown, rosy, laden light with glowing fruits ; 
Down to the sands come ladies, young, and clad 
For holiday ; in whose hearts wonderment 
At manhood is the upmost, deepest thought ; 
And to their side come stately, youthful forms, 
Italy's youth, with burning eyes and hearts : 
Triumphant Love is lord of the bright day. 
Yet one heart, under that blue sail, would look 
With pity on their poor contentedness ; 
For he sits at the helm, I at his feet. 
He sung a song, and I replied to him. 



I06 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III 

His song was of the wind that blew us down 

From sheltered hills to the unsheltered sea. 

Ah ! little thought my heart that the wide sea, 

Where I should cry for comforting in vain, 

Was the expanse of his wide awful soul, 

To which that wind was helpless drifting me ! 

I would he were less great, and loved me more. 

I sung to him a song, broken with sighs. 

For even then I feared the time to come : 

" O will thine eyes shine always, love, as now ? 

And will thy lips for aye be sweetly curved } " 

Said my song, flowing unrhymed from my heart. 

" And will thy forehead, ever, sunlike, bend, 

And suck my soul in vapors up to thee .'' 

Ah love ! I need love, beauty, and sweet odors. 

Thou livest on the hoary mountains ; I 

In the warm valley, with the lily pale. 

Shadowed with mountains and its own great leaves ; 

Where odors are the sole invisible clouds 

Making the heart weep for deliciousness. 

Will thy eternal mountain always bear 

Blue flowers upspringing at the glacier's foot ? 

Alas ! I fear the storms, the blinding snow, 



Scene V. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 107 

The vapors which thou gatherest round thy head. 
Wherewith thou shuttest up thy chamber-door. 
And goest from me into loneliness." 
Ah me, my song ! it is a song no more ! 
He is alone amidst his windy rocks ; 
I wandering on a low and dreary plain ! 

[SAe weeps herself asleep. 

Scene V. — Lord Seaford, alternately writing at a table and 
composing at his pianoforte. 

SONG. 

Eyes of beauty, eyes of light, 
Sweetly, softly, sadly bright ! 
Draw not, ever, o'er my eye, 
Radiant mists of ecstasy. 

Be not proud, O glorious orbs ! 
Not your mystery absorbs ; 
But the starry soul that lies 
Looking through your night of eyes. 

One moment, be less perfect, sweet ; 

Sin once in something small ; 
One fault to lift me on my feet 

From love's too perfect thrall ! 

For now I have no soul ; a sea 

Fills up my caverned brain, 
Heaving in silent waves to thee, 

The mistress of that main. 



I08 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

O angel ! take my hand in thine ; 

Untold thy shining silver wings ; 
Spread them around thy lace and mine, 

Close curtained in tlicir niiirniurings. 

But I should faint with too much bliss 

To be alone in space with thee ; 
Except. O dread ! one angel-kiss 

In sweetest death should set me free. 

beauteous devil, tempt me, tempt me on, 
Till thou hast won my soul in sighs ; 

1*11 smile with thee upon thy tlaming throne. 
If thou wilt keep those eyes. 

And if the moanings of untold desires 

Should charm thy pain of one faint sting ; 

1 will arise amid the scorching tires, 

I will arise and sing. 

O what is God to me ? He sits apart 
Amidst the clear stars, passionless and cold. 

Divine ! thou art enough to fill my heart ; 
O fold me in thy heaven, sweet love, enfold. 

With too much life, I fall before thee dead. 

\\'ith holding thee, n^y sense consumes in storm. 
Thou art too keen a llame, too hallowed 

For any temple but thy holy form. 



Scene VI. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 109 

Scene VI. — yuUaii's room next morning;; no fire. Julian 
stands at the window, looking into a London foi^. 

Julian. And there are mountains on the earth, far- 
off; 
Steep precipices laved at morn in wind 
From the blue glaciers fresh ; and falls that leap, 
Springing from rock to pool abandonedly ; 
And all the spirit of the earth breathed out, 
Bearing the soul, as on an altar-flame, 
Aloft to God. And there is woman-love — 

Far off, ah me ! \Stttingdown wearily. 

The heart of earth's delight 
Withered from mine ! O for a desert sea. 
The cold sun flashing on the sailing icebergs ! 
Where I might cry aloud on God, until 
My soul burst forth upon the wings of pain 
And fled to Him. A numbness as of death 
Enfolds me. As in sleep I walk. I live. 
But my dull soul can hardly keep awake. 
Yet God is here as on the mountain-top, 
Or on the desert .sea, or lonely isle ; 
And I should know Plim here, if Lilia loved me. 



no WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III 

As once I thought she did. But can I blame her ? 

The change has been too much for her to bear. 

Can poverty make one of two hearts cold, 

And warm the other with the love of God ? 

But then I have been silent, often moody, 

Drowned in much questioning ; and she has thought 

That I was tired of her, while more than all 

I pondered how to wake her living soul. 

She cannot think why I should haunt my chamber, 

Except a goaded conscience were my grief ; 

Thinks not of aught to gain, but all to shun. 

Deeming, poor child, that I repent me thus 

Of that which makes her mine for evermore, 

It is no wonder if her love grow less. 

Then I am older much than she ; and this 

Fever, I think, has made me old indeed 

Before my fortieth year ; although, within, 

I seem as young as ever to myself. 

O my poor Lilia ! thou art not to blame ; 

I'll love thee more than ever ; I will be 

So gentle to thy heart where love lies dead ! 

For carefully men ope the door, and walk 

With silent footfall through the room where lies, 



Scene VI. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Ill 

Exhausted, sleeping, with its travail sore, 
The body that erewhile hath borne a spirit. 
A.las, my Lilia ! where is dead Love's child ? 

I must go forth and do my daily work. 
I thank thee, God, that it is hard sometimes 
To do my daily labor; for, of old, 
When men were poor, and could not bring thee much, 
A turtle-dove was all that thou didst ask ; 
And so in poverty, and with a heart 
Oppressed with heaviness, I try to do 
My day's work well to thee, — my offering : 
That He has taught me, who one day sat weary 
At Sychar's well. Then home when I return, 
I come without upbraiding thoughts to thee. 
Ah ! well I see man need not seek for penance — 
Thou wilt provide the lamb for sacrifice ; 
Thou only wise enough to teach the soul. 
Measuring out the labor and the grief, 
Which it must bear for thy sake, not its own. 
He neither chose his glory, nor devised 
The burden He should bear ; left all to God ; 
And of them both God gave to Him enough. 
And see the sun looks faintly through the mist ; 



112 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

ll Cometh as a messenger to me. 
My soul is heavy, but I will go forth ; 
My days seem perishing, but God yet lives 
And loves. I cannot feel, but will believe 

\^He rises and is going. LiLlA enters, looking iveary. 
liOok, my dear Lilia, how the sun shines out ! 

Lilia. Shines out indeed ! Yet 'tis not bad for Eng- 
land. 
I would I were in Italy, my own ! \_Weep&. 

yulian. 'Tis the same sun that shines in Italy. 

Lttia. But never more will shine upon us there. 
It is too late ; all wishing is in vain ! 
But would that we had not so ill deserved 
As to be banished from fair Italy ! 

yulian. Ah ! my dear Lilia, do not, do not think 
That God is angry when we suffer ill. 
'Twere terrible indeed, if 'twere in anger. 

Lilia. Julian, I cannot feel as you. I wish 
I felt as you feel. 

yulian. God will hear you, child. 

If you will speak to Him. But I must go. 
Kiss me, my Lilia. 

\She kisses him mechanically. He goes with a sigh 



SCENE VII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. II 3 

Lilia. It is plain to see 

He tries to love me, but is weary of me. \She weeps. 

Enter LiLY. 
Lily. Mother, have you been naughty? Mother, 
dear ! [Fulling her hand from her face. 

^C^'^Y.NW.— Julian's room. Noon. \a\AK at work ; Lily 
playing in a closet. 

Lily {rumiing up to her mother). Sing me a little 
song ; please, mother dear. 
[Lilia, looking off her %uorh, and thinking with fixed eyes 
for a few moments, sings. 

SONG. 

Once I was a child, 

Oime ! 
Full of frolic wild ; 

Oim^ ! 
All the stars for glancing, 
All the earth for dancing ; 

Oim^! Oim^! 

When I ran about, 

Oime ! 
All the flowers came out, 

Oime ! 
Here and there like stray things, 
Just to be my playthings. 

Oim^! Oime! 
8 



114 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part HI. 

Mother's eyes were deep, 

Oimh ! 
Never needing sleep, 

Oime ! 
Morning — they're above me I 
Eventide — they love me ! 

Oim^! Oim^! 



Father was so tall ! 

Oim^ ! 
Stronger he than all ! 

Oim^ : 
On his arm he Ix^re me. 
Queen of all betore me. 

Oim^ ! Oim6 I 

Mother is asleep : 

Oim^ ! 
For her eyes so deep, 

Oim^ ! 
Grew so tired and aching. 
They could not keep waking. 

Oiin^! Oim^! 

Father, though so strong, 

Oim^ ! 
Laid him down along — 

Oim^ ! 
Fy my mother sleeping ; 
And they Ictt me weeping, 

Oim^ ! Oim^ ! 



Scene VIII. ^VITHIN AND NVITHOUT. US 

Now nor bird, nor bee, 

Oime ! 
Ever sings to me ! 

Oime ! 
Since they left me crying, 
All thing-s have been dying. 

Oime ! Oim^ ! 



[Lily /(wJts Aw^ in her mother's face, as if xvondering what 
the sofig could he about ; theti turns a^vay to the closet. 
After a little she comes running with a box in her hand, 

Lily. O mother, mother ! there's the old box I had 
So loiii; ago, and all my cups and saucers, 
And the farm-house and cows. O, some are broken. 
Father will mend them for me, I am sure. 
I'll ask him when he comes to night — I will : 
He can do everything, you know, dear mother. 

Scene VIII. — A merchant's counting-house. Julian preparing 
to go home. 

Julian, I would not give these days of common 

toil, 

This murky atmosphere that creeps and sinks 
Into the ver}- soul, and mars its hue — 
Not for the evenings when with gliding keel 
I cut a pale-green track across the west — 



no \\irnix am> wiriiour. rAKi-iii. 

Pale-grocn, and (.Lishod with snowy white, and spotted 

Witli sunset crimson ; when the wind breathed low, 

So low it hardly swelled my xebec's sails, 

That pointed to the south, and wavered not, 

Erect upon the waiters. Jesus said 

His followers should have a hundred fold 

Of earth's most precious things, with sutTering. 

In all the laborings of a wearv spirit, 

I have been bless'd with gleams of glorious things. 

The sights and sounds of nature touch niv soul, 

tVo more look in trom far. I never see 

Such radiant, til my clouds, gathered about 

'V gently opening eve into the blue, 

But swells my heart, and bends my sinking knee, 

Bowing in praver. The setting sun, betore. 

Signed only that the hour for prayer was come, 

Where now it moves my inmost soul to prav. 

On this same earth He walked ; even thus He looked 
ITpon its thousand glories ; read them all ; 
In splendor let them pass on through his soul, 
And triumph in their now beatitude, 
Finding a heaven of truth to take them in ; 
But walked on steadily through pain to death. 



Scene IX. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 11/ 

Better to h.ivo tl\e poet's hcAit tl\>\n brain. 
Feeling than song ; but better tar than both, 
To be a song, a music of God's making ; 
Or but a table, on which God's finger of flame, 
In words harmonious, of triumphant verse, 
That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear, 
That out oi darkness Me hath called the light. 
It may be voice to such is after given. 
To tell the mighty tale to other worlds. 

O, I am blest in sorrows with a hope 
That steeps them all in glory ; as gray clouds 
Are bathed in light of roses ; yea, I were 
Most blest of men, if I were now returning 
To Lilia's heart as presence. O my God, 
I can but look to thee. And then the child ! 
Why should my love to her break out in tears ? 
Why should she be only a consolation, 
And not an added joy, to fill my soul 
With gladness overflowing in many voices 
Of song, and prayer — and weeping only when 
Words fainted 'neath the weight of utterance ? 

Scene IX. — Lilia />r,r/>an'n^ to ^ out. LiLY. 
Lily. Don't go to-night again. 



TiS wiriiix A\n NvrriTcnTT. rxKrui 

Lilia, \\\\\\ child, your f.ithor 

Will soon bo lionie ; and then you will not miss me. 

T.ily. O, but [ shall thoni;h ; and ho looks so sad 
Whon you're not here. 

Lilia {aside). Me cannot look much sadder 

Th.in when I am. I am sure "tis a relief 
To lind his child alone when he retvnns. 

Liiw \\'\\\ you i;o. mother.^ Then I'll go and cry 
Till father comes. He'll take me on his knee, 
Atul tell such lovely tales : vou luwer do — 
Nor sin^ me son^s n\.ide all tor mv own self. 
He does not kiss me half so manv times 
As you do. mother ; but he loves me more. 
Do you love lather, too? I love him .<•<>.' 

Lilia {ready). There's such a pretty book ! Sit on 
the stool. 
And look at the pictures till your lather comes. 

Lih {putting the book doivn, and ^>in^tothf window). 

\ wish he would come home. 1 wish he would. 

Enttr J I'M AN. 
O. there ho is ! ^RuHKin^up fy Aim. 

O. now r am so happy ! [Lan^^Mtt^, 

1 had not time to watch bot'orc vou came. 



Scene IX. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. II9 

Julian {taking her in his arms). I am very glad to 
have my little girl ; 
I walked quite f;ist to come to her again. 

Lily. I do, Jo love you. Shall I tell you something ? 
Think I should like to tell you. 'Tis a dream 
That I went into, somewhere in last night. 
I was alone — quite ; — you were not with me, 
So I must tell you. 'Twas a garden, like 
That one you took me to, long, long ago, 
When the sun was so hot. It was not winter, 
But some of the poor leaves were growing tired 
With hanging there so long. And some of them 
Gave it up quite, and so dropped down and lay 
Quiet on the ground. And I was watching them. 
I saw one falling — down, down — tumbling down — 
Just at the earth — when suddenly it spread 
Great wings and flew. It was a butterfly, 
So beautiful with wings, black, red, and white — 

[Laugfiittg heartily 

I thought it was a crackly, withered leaf. 
Away it flew ! I don't know where it went. 
And so I thought, I have a story now 
To tell dear father when he comes to Lily. 



I20 wiriiix ANP wiriiorr. rAKriii. 

yuiijn. Thank you, my child ; a very pretty dream. 
But I am tired — will you go tind another — 
Another dream somewhere in sleep tor me? 

JLi/y. O yes. I will. Perhaps I cannot t'md one. 

[fie lays her ihwn to sleep ; then siis musing 

yuUan. What shall I do to i;ive it lite ai^ain ? 
To make it spread its win^^s betore it tall. 
And lie among the ilead things ot' the earth ? 

Lily. I cannot go to sleep. Tlease, lather, sing 
The song about the little thirstv lilv. 



LUriAN sings. 



l.ittlo white lily 

S.it by a stone. 
Drooping and waiting 

Till the sun shone. 
Little white Uly 

Sunshine has fed ; 
Little white Lilv 

Is lining her ho.id. 

Little white lily 

Said, " It is good^ 
Little white Lily's 

Clothit\g and t\x>d ! 
Little Nvhite lily 

Divst like a bride ! 
Shining with whiteness^ 

.•Vt\d crowne<.l l-^eside 



Scene IX. 



wiriiix Axn wvniouT. 

Little white l.ily 

l^roopeth in pain, 
^V;uting and waiting 

For the wet rain. 
Little white Lily 

lloldeth her cup ; 
Rain is fast tailing, 

And tilling; it up. 

Little white Lilv 

Said, '* Good again, 
\Vhcn I am thirstv 

To have nice rain ! 
Now I am stion^icr, 

Now I am cool ; 
Heat cannot burn me, 

Mv veins arc so lull ! " 

Little white Lily 

Smells very sweet : 
On her head sunshine, 
Rain at her feet. 
« Thanks to the sunshine \ 
Thanks to the rain ! 
Little white Lily 
L^ happy again ! " 



[//, is silent for a mommt : then goes and looks at her. 
yuUan, She is asleep, the cluhn- ! Easily 
Is Sleep enticed to brood on childhood's heart. 
Gone home unto thy Father tor the night ! 

\He returns to his seat. 



122 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part HI. 

I have grown common to her. It is strange — 
This commonness — that, as a blight, eats up 
All the heart's springing corn and promised fruit. 

\_Looking round. 
This room is very common : everything 
Has such a well known look of nothing in it ; 
And yet when first I called it hers and mine, 
There was a mystery inexhaustible 
About each trifle on the chimney-shelf. 
But now the gilt is nearly all worn ofl". 
Even she, the goddess of the wonder world, 
Seems less mysterious and worshipful : 
No wonder I am common in her eyes. 
Alas ! what must I think ? Is this the true ? 
Was that the false that was so beautiful ? 
Was it a rosy mist that wrapped it round ? 
Or was love to the eyes as opium, 
Making all things more beauteous than they were ? 
And can that opium do more than God 
To waken beauty in a human brain ? 
Is this the real, the cold, undraperied truth ; 
A skeleton admitted as a guest 
At life's loud feast, wearing a life-like mask ? 



Scene IX. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 123 

No, no ; my heart would die if I believed it. 

A blighting fog uprises with the days, 

False, cold, dull, leaden, gray. It clings about 

The present, far dragging like a robe ; but ever 

Forsakes the past, and lets its hues shine out : 

On past and future pours the light of heaven. 

The Commonplace is of the present mind. 

The Lovely is the True. The Beautiful 

Is what God made. Men from whose narrow bosoms 

The great child-heart has withered, backward look 

To their first-love, and laugh, and call it folly, 

A mere delusion to which youth is subject, 

As childhood to diseases. They know better ; 

And proud of their denying, tell the youth, 

On whom the wonder of his being shines, 

That will be over with him by and by : 

" I was so when a boy — look at me now ! " ' 

Youth, be not one of them, but love thy love. 

So with all worship of the high and good, 

And pure and beautiful. These men are wiser ! 

Their god, Experience, but their own decay ; 

Their wisdom but the gray hairs gathered on them. 

Yea, some will mourn and sing about their loss. 



ij.j. wiriiiN AND wiriiour. Takt in. 

Ami for (ho sake ofswoct souiuls cherish it, 

Nor vet holiexo tluU it w.is nioro th.m socnnni;-. 

r>iit ho in whom (ho ohiKl's ho.ir( hath not diocl, 

I lath i;i\nvn a man's hoart. lovo(h vot tho Past ; 

r^oHovos in all its hoaut\- ; knows tho lunns 

Will molt tho n\is( ; and (houL;h this voiy day 

Casts bnt a dull stono on Timo's hoapod up oairn, 

A mornini; li.L^ht will hioak ono moin and draw 

Tho hiddon i;lorios ot' a thousand huos 

C^ut tVom its oi\stal dopths and ruhv spi>ts 

And sapphiio voins. unsoon, unknown, bolore. 

l'"ar in tho tuiuio lios his rotugo. Time 

Is (lod's. and all its miraolos aro his ; 

And in tho h'uturo ho ovoriakos tho Past. 

\\'hioh was a piophoov ottimos to oomo : 

Tfure lio i;ioat tlashini; stars, tho samo that shone 

In childhood's laui;hini; hoavon ; ihoro lios tho wonder 

In which tho sun wont down and moon arose ; 

The joy with which tho meadows opened out 

Their daisies to tho warmini;- sun o('sprini;" ; 

Vea, all (ho inward i;loiv, ere cold tear 

Froze, or doul>( shook the minor ot' his soul. 

To reach it, ho ujust olimb the present slope 



ScKNK X. wiriiiN ANM) wiriuH'r. 1J5 

(M'tliis il;iv's iliity — here he wmiM not rest. 
l>ut all the lime (he i;lory is at ii iiul, 
Urging and i;uidini; — only o'er its face 
Hangs ever, pledge and screen, the bridal veil : 
He knows the beauty railiant underneath ; 
He knows that God who is the living Cunl, 
The God of living things, not of the ilying. 
Would never give his child, lor Ciotl-born love, 
A cloud inaile phantom, failing in the sun. 
Faith vanishes in sight ; the cloudy veil 
Will melt away, destroyed of inward light. 

If thy young heart yet lived, my Lilia, thou 
And I might, as two children, haiul in hand, 
Go home unto oin- Father. 1 believe 
It only sleeps, and may be wakened yet. 

Scene X. — ynli\jn''s room. C^in'stmas Day; carlj moni. Ji;. 

LI AN. 

yul'hvi. The light comes feebly, slowly, to the 
world 
On this one day that blesses all the year, 
Just as it comes on any other day : 
A feeble child He came, yet not the less 



126 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

Brought godlike childhood to the aged earth, 

AVhere nothing now is common any more. 

All things had hitherto proclaimed God : 

The wide-spread air ; the luminous mist that hid 

The far horizon of the fading sea ; 

The low persistent music evermore 

Flung down upon the sands, and at the base 

Of the great rocks that hold it as a cup ; 

All things most common ; the furze, now golden, now 

Opening dark pods in music to the heat 

Of the high summer sun at afternoon ; 

The lone black tarn upon the round hill-top. 

O'er which the gray clouds brood like rising smoke, 

Sending its many rills, o'erarched and hid. 

Singing like children down the rocky sides ; — 

Where shall I find the most unnoticed thing. 

For that sung God with all its voice of song ? 

But men heard not, they knew not God in these ; 

To their strange speech unlistening ears were strange j 

For with a stammering tongue and broken words, 

With mingled falsehoods and denials loud, 

Man witnessed God unto his fellow-man : 

How then himself the voice of Nature hear ? 



Scene X. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 12/ 

Or how himself be heeded, when, the leader, 

He in the chorus sang in discord vile ? 

When prophet lies, how shall the people preach? 

But when He came in poverty, and low, 

A real man to half-unreal men, 

A man whose human thoughts were all divine, 

The head and upturned face of human kind — 

Then God shone forth from all the lowly earth, 

And men began to read their Maker there. 

Now the Divine descends, pervading all. 

Earth is no more a banishment from heaven ; 

But a lone field among the distant hills, 

Well ploughed and sown, whence corn is gathered 

home. 
Now, now we feel the holy mystery 
That permeates all being : all is God's ; 
And my poor life is terribly sublime. 
Where'er I look, I am alone in God, 
As this round world is wrapt in folding space ; 
Behind, before, begin and end in Him : 
So all beginnings and all ends are hid ; 
And He is hid in me, and I in Him. 
O what a unitv, to mean them all ! — 



128 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

The peach-dyed morn ; cold stars in colder blue 
Gazing across upon the sun-dyed west ; 
While the cold wind is running o'er the graves. 
Green buds, red flowers, brown leaves, and ghostly 

snow ; 
The grassy hills, breeze-haunted on the brow ; 
And sandy deserts hung with stinging stars. 
Half vanished hangs the moon, with daylight sick, 
Wan-faced and lost and lonely : daylight fades — 
Blooms out the pale eternal flower of space, 
The opal night, whose odors are gray dreams — 
Core of its petal-cup, the radiant moon. 
All, all the unnumbered meanings of the earth. 
Changing with every cloud that passes o'er ; 
All, all, from rocks slow crumbling in the frost 
Of Alpine deserts, isled in stormy air, 
To where the pool in warm brown shadow sleeps, 
The stream, sun-ransomed, dances in the sun ; 
All, all, from polar seas of jeweled ice, 
To where she dreams out gorgeous flowers — all, all 
The unlike children of her single w^omb — 
O, my heart labors wnth infinitude ! 
All, all the messages that these have borne 



Scene X. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 129 

To eyes and ears, and watching, listening souls ; 
And all the kindling cheeks and swelling hearts, 
That since the first-born, young, attempting day, 
Have gazed and worshipped ! What a unity, 
To mean each one, yet fijse the each in all ! 
O centre of all forms ? O concord's home ! 
O world alive in one condensed world ! 

face of Him, in whose heart lay concealed 

The fountain thought of all this kingdom of heaven 1 
Lord, thou art infinite, and I am thine ! 
I sought my God ; I pressed importunate ; 

1 spoke to Him, I cried, and in my heart 

It seemed He answered me. I said, " O, take 

Me nigh to thee, thou mighty life of life ! 

I faint, I die ; I am a child alone 

'Mid the wild storm, the brooding desert night." 

" Go thou, poor child, to Him who once, like thee. 
Trod the highways and deserts of the world." 

" Thou sendest me then, wretched, from thy sight ! 
Thou wilt not have me — I am not worth thy care I " 

" I send thee not away ; child, think not so ; 
From the cloud resting on the mountain peak, 
I call to guide thee in the path by which 
9 



i;o winuN ANP \virHorr. vvKr iii. 

Tluni in.\yst como soonest liomo uiuo my heart. 
I. I .\in lo.uling thee. Think not of Him 
As He were one .md 1 were one ; in Him 
Thou wiU fuul nu\ for He and I are one. 
Learn thou to worship at his lowly shrine. 
And see that God dwelleth in lowliness." 

I eame to \\\m ; I ^a.-ed upon his face ; 
And lo ! Ironi out liis eyes God looked on me ! 
Yea. let them laui^h 1/ I wv/Zsit at his teet. 
As a child sits upoi\ the ground, and looks 
Vp in his mother's facx\ One smile from Him. 
One look from those sad eyes, is more to me 
Than to be lord myself of hearts and thoughts. 
O perfect made through the reacting pain 
In wliich thy making torce recoiled on thee! 
Whom no less glorv could make visible 
Than the utter giving of thyself awav. 
Without a thought of grandeur in the dtH.\i, 
More than a child embracing from full heart ! 
Lorxi of tlu'self and me thivugh the sore grlef» 
\\ hich thou didst bear tv^ bring us b;\ck to God, 
i.^r rather, bear in being unto us 
1 hy own pure shining self ot" love and truth ! 



SrKNKXl WITH IN ANP ^Vl^lkH•^. 151 

W'luMi I h.wo k\iriu\l to think tliy i\idi.int thoughts, 

To lovo the tiuth bevoiul the power to know it, 

To boar niv lii;ht as thou tl\y hoavy cross. 

Nor over tool a martyr tor thy sake, 

But an unprotuabk^ servant stiH, — 

My highest sacritice my simplest duty 

Imperative and unavoidabk\ 

Less than wliioh .-/.'/, wore nothingness and waste ; 

When I have lost nnsolt' in other men. 

And tound niysolt' in thee — the Father then 

Will oomo with thee, and will abide with me. 



ScfnkXI. — Liu A fAi.-^ifij;;- Lvov C.FKrRunK. £»/^r Lord 
Skaford. Liua rises. He //.j.v.v hrr .) cknir^ and si\Us kirn- 
self ai tAe instrument; //ai-j j .\>.\', /:j!f-me/jMi'At>lyt A*U/-dt- 
JSa$t/ /re/nde^ and sin£^. 

"Look on the magic mirror ; 

A gU^f)' thou wilt spy : 
Be with thine heart a sh.irer, 

But go not thou too nigh ; 
Else thou wilt rue thine error, 

With a tear-tiUed. sleepless eye." 

Tfce youth looked on the mirror. 
And he went not too nigh ; 



132 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part III. 

And yet he rued his error, 

With a tear-filled, sleepless eye ; 
For he could not be a sharer 

Of what he there did spy. 

He went to the magician, 

Upon the morrow morn. 
" Mighty," was his petition, 

" Look not on me in scorn ; 
But one lasf gaze elysian. 

Lest I should die forlorn ! " 

He saw her in her glory, 

Floating upon the main. 
Ah me ! the same sad story ! 

The darkness and the rain ! 
If I live till I am hoary, 

I shall never laugh again. 

She held the youth enchanted. 

Till his trembling lips were pale. 
And his full heart heaved and panted 

To utter all its tale : 
Forward he rushed, undaunted — 

And the shattered mirror fell. 

{He rises and leaves the room, LiLiA weeping 



END OF PART III. 



WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 

PART IV. 

And should the twilight darken into night, 

And sorrow grow to anguish, be thou strong ; 
' Thou art in God, and nothing can go wrong 
Which a fresh life-pulse cannot set aright. 
That thou dost know the darkness, proves the light. 
Weep if thou wilt, but weep not all too long ; 
Or weep and work, for work will lead to song. 
But search thy heart, if, hid from all thy sight. 
There lie no cause for beauty's slow decay ; 
If for completeness and diviner youth. 
And not for very love, thou seek'st the truth ; 
If thou hast learned to give thyself away 
For love's own self, not for thyself, I say : 
Were God's love less, the world were lost, in sooth. 



PART IV. 

Scene I. — Sumtner. JuJiaii's room. ]\jia ah is reading out of 
a book of poems. 

LOVE me, beloved r the thick clouds lower ; 
A sleepiness filleth the earth and air ; 
The rain has been falling for many an hour ; 

A weary look the summer doth wear : 
Beautiful things that cannot be so ; 
Loveliness clad in the garments of woe. 

I^ove me, beloved : I hear the birds ; 

The clouds are lighter ; 1 see the blue ; 
The wind in the leaves is like gentle words 

Quietly passing 'twixt me and you ; 
The evening air will bathe the buds 
With the soothing coolness of summer floods. 

I.ove me, beloved : for, many a day, 
Will the mist of the morning pass away ; 
Many a day will the brightness of noon 
Lead to a night that hath lost her moon ; 
And in joy or in sadness, in autumn or spring, 
Thy love to my soul is a needful thing. 

Love me, beloved : for thou mayest lie 
Dead in my sight, 'neath the same blue sky ; 



136 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Love me, O love me, and let me know 
The love that within thee moves to and fro ; 
That many a form of thy love may be 
Gathered around thy memory. 

Love me, beloved : for I may lie 
Dead in thy sight, 'neath the same blue sky ; 
The more thou hast loved me, the less thy pain, 
The stronger thy hope till we meet again ; 
And forth on the pathway we do not know, 
With a load of love, my soul would go. 

Love me, beloved : for one must lie 
Motionless, lifeless, beneath the sky ; 
The pale stiff lips return no kiss 
To the lips that never brought love amiss ; 
And the dark brown earth be heaped above 
The head that lay on the bosom of love. 

Love me, beloved ; for both must lie 

Under the earth and beneath the sky ; 

The world be the same when we are gone ; 

The leaves and the waters all sound on ; 

The spring come forth, and the wild flowers live, 

Gifts for the poor man's love to give ; 

The sea, the lordly, the gentle sea, 

Tell the same tales to others than thee ; 

And joys, that flush with an inward morn, 

Irradiate hearts that are yet unborn ; 

A youthful race call our earth their own, 

And gaze on its wonders from thought's high throne, 

Embraced by fair Nature, the youth will embrace 

The maid beside him, his queen of the race : 



Scene I. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 1 37 

When thou and I shall have passed away 
Like the foam-flake thou lookedst on yesterday. 



Love me, beloved : for both must tread 

On the threshold of Hades, the house of the dead ; 

Where now but in thinkings strange we roam. 

We shall live and think, and shall be at home ; - 

The sights and the sounds of the spirit land 

No stranger to us than the white sea-sand, 

Than the voice of the waves, and the eye of the moon, 

Than the crowded street in the sunlit noon. 

I pray thee to love me, beloved of my heart ; 

If we love not truly, at death we part ; 

And how would it be with our souls to find 

That love, like a body, was left behind ! 

Love me, beloved : Hades and Death 
Shall vanish away like a frosty breath ; 
These hands, that now are at home in thine, 
Shall clasp thee again, if thou still art mine ;* 
And thou shalt be mine, my spirit's bride, 
In the ceaseless flow of eternity's tide. 
If the truest love that thy heart can know 
Meet the truest love that from mine can flow. 
Pray God, beloved, for thee and me. 
That our souls may be wedded eternally. 

[He closes the book, and is silent for some mometits. 

Ah me, O Poet ! did thy love last out 

The common life together every hour ? 

The slumber side by side with wondrousness 

Each night after a day of fog and rain ? 



138 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Did thy love glory o'er the empty purse, 
And the poor meal sometimes the poet's lot ? 
Is she dead, Poet ? Is thy love awake ? 
Alas ! and is it come to this with me ? 
I might have written that ; where am I now ? 
Yet let me think: I love less passionately, ^ 
But not less truly ; I would die for her — 
A little thing, but all a man can do. 
O my beloved, where the answering love? 
Love me, beloved ; whither art thou gone ? 

Scene II. — Lilians room. Lilia. 

Lilia. He grows more moody still, more self-with- 
drawn. 
Were it not better that I went away, 
And left him with the child ; for shte alone 
Can bring the sunshine on his cloudy face ? 
Alas ! he used to say to me, my child. 
Some convent would receive me in my land, 
Where I might weep unseen, unquestioned ; 
And pray that God, in whom he seems to dwell, 
To take me likewise in, beside him there. 

Had I not better make one trial first 



Scene III. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 139 

To win again his love to compass me } 

Might I not kneel, lie down before his feet, 

And beg and pray for love as for my life ? 

Clasping his knees, look up to that stern heaven, 

That broods above his eyes, and pray for smiles ? 

What if endurance were my only meed ? 

He would not turn away, but speak forced words, 

Soothing with kindness me who thirst for love, 

And giving service where I wanted smiles ; 

Till by degrees all had gone back again 

To where it was, a slow dull misery. 

No. 'Tis the best thing I can do for him — 

And that I will do — free him from my sight. , 

In love I gave myself away to him ; 

And now in love I take myself again. 

He will not miss me ; I am nothing now. 

Scene HI. — Lord Seaford's garden. LiLiA; Lord Seaford. 
Lord S. How the white roses cluster on the trellis ! 
They look in the dim light as if they floated 
Within the fluid dusk that bathes them round. 
One could believe that those far distant sounds 
Of scarce-heard music, rose with the faint scent, 



140 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Breathed odorous from the heart of the pale flowers, 

As the low rushing from a river-bed, 

Or the continuous bubbling of a spring 

In deep woods, turning over its own joy 

In its own heart luxuriously, alone. 

'Twas on such nights, after such sunny days, 

The poets of old Greece saw beauteous shapes 

Sighed forth from out the rooted, earth-fast trees, 

With likeness undefinable retained 

In higher human form to their tree-homes. 

Which fainting let them forth into the air, 

And lived a life in death till they returned. 

The large-limbed, sweepy-curved, smooth-rinded beech 

Gave forth the perfect woman to the night ; 

From the pale birch, breeze-bent and waving, stole 

The graceful, slight-curved maiden, scarcely grown. 

The hidden well gave forth its hidden charm, 

The Naiad with the hair that flowed like streams, 

And arms that gleamed like moonshine on wet sands. 

The broad-browed oak, the stately elm, gave forth 

Their inner life in shapes of ecstasy. 

All varied, loveliest forms of womanhood 

Dawned out in twilight, and athwart the grass 



Scene III. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 141 

Half danced with cool and naked feet, half floated 
Borne on winds dense enough for them to swim. 
O what a life they lived ! in poet's brain — 
Not on this earth, alas ! But you are sad ; 
You do not speak, dear lady. 

Lilia. Pardon me. 

If such words make me sad, I am to blame. 

Lord S. Sad ! True, I spoke of lovely, beauteous 
things ; 
Beauty and sadness always go together. 
Nature thought Beauty too rich to go forth 
Upon the earth without a meet alloy. 
If Beauty had been born the twin of Gladness, 
Poets had never needed this dream-life ; 
Each blessed man had but to look beside him, 
And be more blest. How easily could God 
Have made our life one consciousness of joy ! 
It is denied us. Beauty flung around 
Most lavishly, to teach our longing hearts 
To worship her j then when the soul is full 
Of lovely shapes, and all sweet sounds that breathe, 
And colors that bring tears into the eyes — 
Steeped until saturated with her essence ; 



142 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

And, faint with longing, gasps for some one thing 

More beautiful than all, containing all, 

Essential Beauty's self, that it may say: 

" Thou art my Queen — I dare not think to crown 

thee. 
For thou art crowned already, every part, 
With thy perfection ; but I kneel to thee. 
The utterance of the beauty of the earth. 
As of the trees the Ham^dryades ; 
I worship thee, intense of loveliness ! 
Not sea-born only ; sprung from Earth, Air, Ocean, 
Star-fire ; all elements and forms commingling 
To give thee birth, to utter each its thought 
Of beauty held in many forms diverse, 
In one form, holding all, a living Love, 
Their far-surpassing child, their chosen queen 
By virtue of thy dignities combined ! " 
And when in some great hour of wild surprise 
She floats into his sight ; and, rapt, entranced, 
At last he gazes, as I gaze on thee, 
And, breathless, his full heart stands still for joy. 
And his soul thinks not, having lost itself 
In her, pervaded with her being ; strayed 



Scene III. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 143 

Out from his eyes, and gathered round her form, 

Clothing her with the only beauty yet 

That could be added, ownness unto him : 

Then falls the sternest No with thunder tone. 

Think, lady, — the poor unresisting soul 

Clear-burnished to a crystalline abyss 

To hold in central deep the ideal form ; 

Led then to Beauty, and one glance allowed 

From heart of hungry, vacant, waiting shrine. 

To set it on the Pisgah of desire — 

Lo, the black storm 1 the slanting, sweeping rain ! 

Gray distances of travel to no end ! 

And the dim rush of countless years behind ! 

\He sinks at her feet. 

Yet for this moment, let me worship thee ! 

Lilia {agitated). Rise, rise, my lord ; this cannot be 
indeed. 
I pray you, cease ; I will not listen to you. 
Indeed it must not, cannot, must not be ! 

\AIoving as to go. 

Lord S. {rising). Forgive me, madam. Let me cast 
myself 
On your good thoughts. I had been thinking thus, 



144 WITHIN AN!) wrniour. part iv. 

All (lie hri^hl m<)rniii<;, ;is I walked ahinc ; 

And wlu-ii you came, my Ihoui^hls /lowed forth in 

words. 
It is n, weakness with me from my boyhood, 
That if I act a part in any play, 
Or follow, merely intellectually, 
A ])assion or a motive — ere I know, 
My heini; is absorht'd, my brain on fire ; 
1 am possessed with somclliiiinr not my own, 
And live and move and speak in foreii^n forms, 
rily my weakness, madam ; and forgive 
My rudeness with your gentleness and truth. 
That you are beautiful is simple fact ; 
And wluMi 1 oiux' began lo speak my thoughts, 
The wheels of sjieech ran on, till du>y look fire, 
And in your fice Hung foolish si)aiks and dust. 
I am ashanuul ; and but for dread of shame, 
I should be kneeling now to beg forgiveness. 

Lilia. Think notliing more of it, my lord, T pray. 
What is this jnirple llower with the black spot 
In its deep heart? I never saw it before. 



Scene IV. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 145 



Scene IV. — Juliaii's room. The dusk of evening. Julian 
standing zuith his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the JIook 

Julian. I see her as I saw her then. She sat 
On a low chair, the child upon her knees, 
Not six months old. Radiant with motherhood, 
Her full face l^camed upon the face below. 
Bent over, as with love to ripen love ; 
Till its intensity, like summer heat. 
Gathered a mist across her heaven of eyes, 
Which grew until it dropt in large slow tears, 
Rich human rain on furrows of the heart ! 

\_IIe walks towards the window, seats himself at a little table, 
and turites. 



THE FATHER'S HYMN FOR THE MOTHER TO SING. 

My child is lying on my knees ; 

The signs of heaven she reads ; 
My face is all the heaven she sees, 

Is all the heaven she needs. 

And she is well, yea, Ijathed in bliss, 

If heaven is in my face — 
Behind it all is tenderness, 

And truthfulness and grace. 



146 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

I mean her well so earnestly, 

Unchanged in changing mood ; 
My life would go without a sigh 

To bring her something good. 

I also am a child, and I 

Am ignorant and weak ; 
I gaze upon the starry sky, 

And then I must not speak ; 

For all behind the starry sky, 

Behind the world so broad. 
Behind men's hearts and souls doth lie 

The Infinite of God. 

If true to her, though troubled sore, 

I cannot choose but be ; 
Thou, who art peace for evermore, 

Art very true to me. 

If I am low and sinful, bring 

More love where need is rife ; 
Thou knowest what an awful thing 

It is to be a life. 

Hast thou not wisdom to enwrap 

My waywardness about, 
In doubting safety on the lap 

Of Love that knows no doubt ? 

Lo ! Lord, I sit in thy wide space. 

My child upon my knee ; 
She looketh up unto my face, 

And I look up to thee. 



Scene V. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 147 

Scene V. — Lord Seaford^s house; Lady Gertrude's room. 
Lai^y Gertrude lying on a couch ; Lilia seated beside her^ 
with the girl's hand in bolh hers. 

Lady Gertrude. How kind of you to come ! And 
you will stay 
And be my beautiful nurse till I grow well ? 
I am better since you came. You look so sweet, 
It brings all summer back into my heart. 

Lilia. I am very glad to come. Indeed, I felt 
No one could nurse you quite so well as I. 

Lady Gertrude. How kind of you ! Do call me 
sweet names now ; 
And put your white cool hands upon my head ; 
And let me lie and look in your great eyes ; 
'Twill do me good ; your very eyes are healing. 

Lilia. I must not let you talk too much, dear 
child. 

Lady Gertrude. Well, as I cannot have my music- 
lesson, 
And must not speak much, will you sing to me? 
Sing that strange ballad you sang once before ; 
'Twill keep me quiet. 

Lilia. What was it, child ? 



148 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Lady Gertrude. It was 

Something about a race — Death and a lady — 

Lilia. O, I remember. I would rather sing 
Some other though. 

Lady Gertrude. No, no, I want that one. 
Its ghost walks up and down inside my head. 
But won't stand long enough to show itself. 
You must talk Latin to it — sing it away, 
Or when I'm ill, 'twill haunt me. 

Lilia. Well, I'll sing it. 

SONG. 

Death and a lady rode in the wind, 

In a starry midnight pale ; 
Death on a bony horse behind, 

With no footfall upon the gale. 

The lady sat a wild-eyed steed ; 

Eastward he tore to the morn 
But ever the sense of a noiseless speed. 

And the sound of reaping corn ! 

All the night through, the headlong race 

Sped to the morning gray ; 
The dewdrops lay on her cold white face^ 

From Death or the morning ? say. 

Her steed's wide knees began to shake, 
As he flung the road behind ; 



Scene V. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 149 

The lady sat still, but her heart did quake, 
And a cold breath came down the wind. 



When, lo ! a fleet bay horse beside, 

With a silver mane and tail ; 
A knight, bareheaded, the horse did ride. 

With never a coat of mail. 

He never lifted his hand to Death, 

And he never couched a spear ; 
But the lady felt another breath. 

And a voice was in her ear. 

He looked her weary eyes through and through, 

With his eyes so strong in faith : 
Her bridle-hand the lady drew. 

And she turned and laughed at Death. 

And away through the mist of the morning gray. 

The spectre and horse rode wide ; 
The dawn came up the old bright way. 

And the lady never died. 



Lord Seaford {who has entered during the song). De- 
lightful ! Why, my little pining Gertrude, 
With such charm-music you will soon be well. 
Madam, I know not how to speak the thanks 
I owe you for your kindness to my daughter : 
She looks as different from yesterday 
As sunrise from a fog. 



ISO WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Tart IV. 

Lilia, 1 am but too happy 

To be of use to one I love so much. 



Scene VI. — A r^iny ^Ity. Lord Seakord walking up and doion 
his room, murmuring to himself. 

O, my love is like a wiiul of death, 

That turns me to a stone ! 
O, mv love is like a desert breath, 

That burns me to the bone ! 

O, my love is a flower with a purple glow, 

And a purple scent all day ! 
But a black spot lies at the heart below, 

Anil smells all night ot" clay. 

O, my love is like the poison sweet 

That lurks in the hooded cell ! 
One flash in the eyes, one bounding beat, 

And then the passing bell ! 

O, my love she's like a white, white rose ! 

And I am the canker-worm : 
Never the bud to a blossom blows ; 

It falls in the rainy storm. 

Scene VH. — Julian rcaJitig in his room. 

** And yet I an\ not .alone, because the Father is with me." 

[/A* close's the book and kneels. 



Scene VIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 151 

Scene V\U. — Lard Sea/orcTs room. Lilia and Lord Sea- 
ford. Her hand lies in his. 

Lilia. It may be triio. I am bewildered, though. 
I know not what to answer. 

Lord S. "Let me answer : 

You would it were so — you would love me then ? 

[A sudden crash of music frc/m a brass hand in the street, 
melting away in a low cadence. 

Lilia {starting up). Let me go, my lord ! 

Lord S. {retai7iing her hand). Why, sweetest ! What 

is this ? 
Lilia {vehemently^ and disengaging her hand). Let 

me go ! O my husband ! my pale child ! 

[ She hurrie: to the door^ hut fail:. 

Lord S. {raising her). I thought you trusted me, yes, 

loved me, Lilia ! 
Lilia. Peace ! that name is his ! Speak it again — I 
rave. 
He thought I loved him — and I did — I do. 
Open the door, my lord ! 

\ne hesitates. .She draws herself up erect, with flashing 
eyes. 



152 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Once more, my lord — 

Open the door, I say. 

{lie' still /lesilatcs. She loalks s^viftly to tlw loindoio, Jlings 

it loidc'f and is thrcnving herself out. 

Lord S. Stop, madam ! I will. 

[//t- opens the door. She leaves the window, and walks shnvly 
out. He hears the house-door open and shut, Jlings him- 
self on the couch, and hides his face. 

Enter Lady GiarrRUDE. 

Lady Gertrude'. Dear father, are you ill .'' I knocked 
three times ; 
You did not speak. 

Lord S. I did not hear you, child. 

My head aches rather; else I am quite well. 

Lady Gertrude. Where is the Countess ? 

Lord S. She is gone. She had 

An urgent message to go home at once. 
But, Gertrude, now you seem so well, why not 
Set out to-morrow ? You can travel now ; 
And for your sake the sooner that we breathe 
Italian air the better. 

Lady Gertrude. This is sudden ! 

I scarcely can be ready by to-morrow. 

LLord S. It will oblige me, child. Do what vou can. 



ScKNElX. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 1 53 

Just go and order everytliing you want. 
I will go with you. Ring the bell, my love; 
I have a reason for my haste. We'll have 
The horses to at once. Come, Gertrude, dear. 

Scene IX. — Evening. Hampslead Ilcath. LiiJA seated. 

Lilia. The first pale star of night ! the trembUng 
star ! 
And all heaven waiting till the sun has drawn 
His long train after ! then a new creation 
Will follow their queen-leader from the depths. 
O leader of new worlds ! O star of love ! 
Thou hast gone down in me, gone down forever ; 
And left my soul in such a starless night, 
It has not love enough to weep thy loss. 
O fool ! to know thee once, and, after years, 
To take a gleaming marsh-light for thy lamp 
How could I for one moment hear him speak ! 
O Julian ! for my last love-gift I thought 
To bring that love itself, bound and resigned, 
And offering it a sacrifice to thee. 
Lead it away into the wilderness ; 
But one slow spot hath tainted this my lamb ; 



154 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV 

Unoffered it must gOy footsore and weary, 

Not flattering itself to die for thee. 

And yet, thank God, it was one moment only, 

That, lapt in darkness and the loss of thee, 

Sun of my soul, and half my senses dead 

Through very weariness and lack of love, 

My heart throbbed once responsive to a ray 

That glimmered through its gloom from other eyes, 

And seemed to promise rest and hope again. 

My presence shall not grieve thee any more. 

My Julian, my husband. I ^Yill find 

A quiet place where I will seek thy God. 

And — in my heart it wakens like a voice 

From Him — the Saviour — there are other worlds 

Where all gone wrong in this may be set right ; 

Where 1, made pure, may find thee, purer still. 

And thou wilt love the love that kneels to thee, 

I'll write and tell him I have gone, and why. 

But what to say about my late offense. 

That he may understand just what it was ^ 

For I must tell him, if I write at all. 

I fear he would discover where I was ; 

Pitiful dutv would not let him rest 



scxnkx. within and without. 155 

Until he found me ; and I fain would free 
From all the weight of mine, that heart of his. 

[Sifftmi of a caack-kom. 
It calls me to rise up and go to him. 
Leading me further from him and away. 
The earth is round ; God s thoughts return again ; 
And 1 will go in hope. Help me. my God ! 

SCFNK X. — /..;.,;'/..- '\vw». JuuAX m^//«isr. A Utttr U bright 
tM, Hi mads it^ ittrtts diodfy /o/f, «t«/ Uans Ais arms atui 
JUad^M ^t AMr^ aimw!t ^^Mfu^. Tikis /asis s«mt trm* ; tJken 
siartt)^ t^ he /aces tJkrm^ tkt nuMt, kis skemlders si^ify 
skn^Sftdt ^ »yms r^'d ty its siiies, and its Jkattds cltMcird 
Jkardt ast/amei rf faim were dravtm i(gJkt artmnd Jiis framu, 
Aila^lA i* irtaiies dte/^ tbraws Ahmelfttf^ andwaUs erw/, 
JUs cAest s%mitu^t imi JUs ieeii set 

yu/ia/t. Me! My wife! Insect, did'st thou say 
my wife ? 

[mtrritdfy i>trt$h^ ilU /titer am tA* iaiU tasettke address. 
WTiy, if she love him more than me, why then 
I^t her go with him ! Gone to Italy ! 
Pursue, says he ? Ra'engt f Let the corpse crush 
The slimy maggot with its pulpy fingers ! 
What if I stabbed — 

[ ThJtii^ Ais di^gger, amd ftelhtg^ its faimi. 
Whom ? Her — what then ? Or him — 



156 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

What yet? Would that give back the Hfe to me ? 
There is one more — myself! O, peace ! to feel 
The earthworms crawling through my mouldering 

brain ! 
But to be driven along the windy wastes — 
To hear the tempests, raving as they turn, 
Howl Lilia, Lilia — to be tossed about 
Beneath the stars that range themselves forever 
Into the burning letters of her name — 
'Twere better creep the earth down here than that ; 
For pain's excess here sometimes deadens pain. 

[//i? throws the dagger on the floor, 

Have I deserved this ? Have I earned it ? I ? 
A pride of innocence darts through my veins. 
I stand erect. Shame cannot touch me. Ha ! 
I laugh at insult. 12 I am myself — 
Why starest thou at me t Well, stare thy fill ; 
When devils mock, the angels lend their wings : — 
But what their wings ? I have nowhere to fly. 
Lilia ! my worship of thy purity ! 
Hast thou forgotten — ah ! thou didst not know 
How, watching by thee in thy fever-pain, 
When thy white neck and bosom were laid bare, 



Scene X. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 1 57 

I turned my eyes away, and turning drew 

With trembling hand white darkness over thee, 

Because I knew not thou didst love me then. 

Love me ! O God in heaven ! Is love a thing 

That can die thus ? Love me ! Would, for thy penance, 

Thou saw'st but once the heart which thou hast torn — 

Shaped all about thy image set within ! 

But that were fearful ! What rage would not, love 

Must then do for thee — in mercy I would kill thee, 

To save thee from the hell-fire of remorse. 

If blood would make thee clean, then blood should 

flow ; 
Eager, unwilling, this hand should make thee bleed. 
Till, drop by drop, the taint should drop away. 
Clean ! said I ? fit to lie by me in sleep. 
My hand upon thy heart ! — not fit to lie. 
For all thy bleeding, by me in the grave ! 

{His eye falls on that likeness of Jesus said to be copied from 
an emerald engraved for Tiberius. He gazes, drops on 
his knees, and covers his face ; remains motionless a long 
time; then rises very pale, his lips compressed, his eyes 
filled with tears. 

O my poor Lilia ! my bewildered child ! 
How shall I win thee, save thee, make thee mine ? 



158 \VITHIX ANP WirilOUT. Part IV. 

Wlioro art thoii wnmlcrino ? Wli.it words in thine 

cars ? 
God, can she never more be clean ? no more, 
Through all the terrible years ? llast thou no well 
In all thy heaven, in all thvselt", that ean 
Wash her soul clean? Her bodv will go down 
Into the iVicndly earth — would it were lying 
There in niv arms ; tor there thv rains will come, 
Fresh tVom the sky, slow sinking through the sod, 
Summer and winter ; and we two should lie 
Mouldering away together, gently washed 
Into the heart of earth ; and part would tloat 
Forth on the sunnv breezes that bear clouds 
Through the thin air. But her stained soul, my Cod I 
Canst thou not cleanse it ? Then should we, when 

death 
Was gone, creep into heaven at hist, and sit 
In some still phice together, glory-shadowed. 
None would ask questions there. And I should be 
Content to sorrow a little, so 1 might 
But see her with the darling on her knees, 
And know that must be pure that dwelt within 
The circle of thv dorv. Lilia ! Lilia ! 



Scene X. WJTi/IN ASD WITHOUT. 159 

I scorn the shame rushing from head to foot; 
I would endure it endlessly, to save 
One thought of thine from his polluting touch ; 
Saying ever to myself: This is a part 
Of my own J>ilia ; and the world to mo 
Is nothing since I lost the smiles of her : 
Somehow, I know not how, she faded from me, 
And this is all that's left of her. My wife ! 
/'Soul of my soul ! my oneness with myself! 
Come back to rne ; I will be all to thee ; 
Back to rny heart ; and we will weep together, 
And pray to God together every hour, 
That He would show how strong He is to save. 
The One that made is able to renew : 
I know not how. I'll hold thy heart to mine, 
So close that the defilement needs must go. 
My love shall ray thee round, and, strong as fire, 
Dart through and through thy soul, till it be 

cleansed. 
But if she love him ? O, my heart — beat ! beat I 
Grow not so sick with misery and life. 
For fainting will not save thee. O, no ! no ! 
She cannot love him as she must love me. 



l60 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV 

Then if she love him not, O horrible ! O God ! 

[//t' stands in a stupor for some minutes. 

What devil whispered that vile word, imcleaii ? 

I care not — loving more than that can touch. 

Let me be shamed, aye, perish in my shame, 

As men call perishing, so she be saved. 

Saved ! my beloved ! my Lilia ! alas ! 

Would she were here, and I would make her weep, 

Till her soul wept itself to purity. 

Far, far away ! where my love cannot reach. 
No, no ; she is not gone. 

\Starting and pacing ivildly throngh the room. 
It is a lie — 
Deluding blind revenge, not keen-eyed love. 
I must do something. lEnter Lit.y. 

Ah ! there's the precious thing 
That shall entice her back. 

\_Kneeling and clasping the child to his heart. 
My little Lily, 
I have lost your mother. 

J-'t.ly. O ! \Begi fining to weep. 

She was so pretty, 
Somebody has stolen her. 



Scene XL WITHIN AND WITHOUT. l6l 

jfulian. Will you go with me, 

And help me look for her ? 

Lily. O yes, I will. 

\Clasping him round the neck. 
But my head aches so ! Will you carry me t 

Julian. Yes, my own darling. Come, we'll get 

your bonnet. 
Lily. O ! you've been crying, father. You're so 
whi te ! [Puttmg her finger to his cheek. 

Scene XI. — A table in a cliib-roojn. 6>z/^r^/ GENTLEMEN seated 
round it. To them enter another. 

1st Gentleman. Why, Bernard, you look heated ; 

what's the matter t 
Bernard. Hot work, as looked at ; cool enough, 

as done. 
2d G. A good antithesis, as usual, Bernard ; 
But a shell too hard for the vulgar teeth 
Of our impatient curiosity. 

Bernard. Most unexpectedly I found myself 
Spectator of a scene in a home-drama 
AVorth all stage tragedies I ever saw. 
II 



l62 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

All. What was it ? Tell us, then. Here, take this 
seat. \IIe sits at the tabled and pours o7it a glass of wine. 

Bernard. I went to call on Seaford, and was told 
He had gone to town. So I, as privileged, 
Went to his cabinet to write a note ; 
Which finished, I came down, and called his valet. 
Just as I crossed the hall I heard a voice — 
" The Countess Lamballa — is she here to-day ? " 
And looking towards the door I caught a glimpse 
Of a tall figure, gaunt and stooping, drest 
In a blue shabby frock down to his knees, 
And on his left arm sat a little child. 
The porter gave short answer, with the door 
For period to the same ; when, like a flash, 
It flew wide open, and the serving man 
Went reeling, staggering backward to the stairs, 
'Gainst which he fell, and, rolling down, lay stunned. 
In walked the visitor ; but in the moment 
Just measured by the closing of the door, 
Heavens ! what a change ! He walked erect, as if 
Heading a column, with an eye and face 
As if a fountain-shaft of blood had shot 
Up suddenly within his wasted frame. 



Scene XI. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 163 

The child sat on his arm quite still and pale, 
But with a look of triumph in her eyes. 
Of me he took no notice ; came right on ; 
Looked in each room that opened from the hall ; 
In every motion calm as glacier's flow, 
Save now and then a movement, sudden, quick, 
Of his right hand across to his left side : 
'Twas plain he had been used to carry arms. 

3^ G. Did no one stop him ? 

Bernai'd. Stop him ? I'd'as soon 

Have faced a tiger with bare hands. 'Tis easy 
In passion to meet passion ; but it is 
A daunting thing to look on, when the blood 
Is going its wonted pace through your own veins. 
Besides, this man had something in his face, 
With its live eyes, close lips, nostrils distended, 
A self-reliance, and a self-command, 
That would go right up to his goal, in spite 
Of any no from any man. I would 
As soon have stopped a cannon-ball as him. 
Over the porter, lying where he fell. 
He strode, and up the stairs. I heard him go — 
I listened as it were a ghost that walked 



164 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV 

With pallid spectre-child upon its arm — 

Along the corridors, from door to door, 

Opening and shutting. But at last a sting 

Of sudden fear lest he should find the lady, 

And mischief follow, shot me up the stairs. 

I met him half-way down, quiet as at first ; 

The fire had faded from his eyes ; the child 

Held in her tiny hand a lady's glove 

Of delicate primrose. When he reached the hall, 

He turned him to the porter, who had scarce 

Lifted him from the floor, and saying thus : 

" The Count Lamballa waited on Lord Seaford," 

Turned him again, and strode into the street. 

1st G. Have you got hold of any clew ? 

Bernard. Not any. 

Of course he had suspicions of his wife ; 
For all the gifts a woman has to give, 
I would not rouse such blood. And yet to see 
The gentle fairy child fall kissing him, 
And, with her little arms grasping his neck. 
Peep anxious round into his shaggy face. 
As they went down the street ! — it almost made 
A fool of me. I'd marry for such a child ! 



Scene XII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 165 



Scene XII. — A by-street. Julian zualking home very weary. 
The child in his arms, her head lying on his shoulder. An Or- 
GAN-UOY with a monkey, sitliitg on a door-step. He sings in a 
low voice. 

yulian. Look at the monkey, Lily. 
Lily. No, dear father ; 

I do not like monkeys. 

Julian. Hear the poor boy sing. 

[ They listen. He sings. 
SONG. 

Wenn ich hore dich mir nah', 
Stimmen in den Blattern da ; 
Wenn ich fiihl' dich weit und breit, 
Vater, das ist Seligkeit. 

Nun die Sonne liebend scheint, 
Mich mit dir und All vereint ; 
Biene zu den Blumen fliegt. 
Seel' an Lieb' sich liebend schmiegt. 

So mich vollig lieb du hast, 
Dasejm ist nicht eine Last ; 
Wenn ich seh' und hore dich, 
Das geniigt mir inniglich. 

Lily. It sounds so curious. What is he saying, 
father t 



l66 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Paki IV. 

yulian. My boy, you are nol German .'* 

Boy. No ; my mother 

Came from those parts. She used to sing- the song. 

I hardly understand it all myself, 

For 1 was born in Genoa. Ah ! my mother! [//4r/,f. 
jfuliaji. My mother was a German, my poor boy ; 

My father was Italian : 1 am like you. 

[(Jiz'ift^ /lim momy 

You sing of leaves and sunshine, (lowers and bees, 
Poor child, upon a stone in the dark street ? 

Boy. My mother sings it in her grave ; and I 
Will sing it everywhere, until I die. 



Scene XHI. — Lilia's room. Julian enters wilh the child, 
uiiJresses her, and puts her to bed. 

Lily. Father does all things for his little Lily. 
ytilian. Dear, dear Lily ! Go to sleep, my pet. 

{Sitl'uig by her. 

*' Wenn ich seh' und hore dich, 
Das geniigt mir inniglich. " {Rjiling on his knees. 

I come to thee, and, lying on thy breast, 

Father of me, I tell thee in thine ear, 

Half-shrinking from the sound, yet speaking free, 

That thou art not enough for me, my God. 



Scene Xlil. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 



167 



O, dearly do I love thee ! Look ; no fear 

Lest thou shouldst be offended, touches me. 

Herein I know thy love ; mine casts out fear. 

O give me back my wife ; thou without her 

Canst never make me blessed to the full. [Silence. 

O yes ; thou art enough for me, my God ; 
Part of th) self she is, else never mine. 
My need of her is but thy thought of me ; 
She is the offspring of thy beauty, God ; 
Yea of the womanhood that dwells in thee : 
Thou wilt restore her to my very soul. [h'ismg 

It may be all a lie. Some needful cause 
Keeps her away. Wretch that I am, to think 
One moment that my wife could sin against me I 
She will come back to-night. I know she will. 
How shall I answer for such jealousy ! 
For that fool-visit to Lord Seaford's house ! 

[His eyes fall on the glove which the child still holds in her 
sleeping hand. He takes it gently away, and hides it in 
his bosom. 
It will be all explained. To think I should, 
Without one word from her, condemn her so ! 
What can I say to her when she reurns } 



l68 WITHIN ANi:> WITHOUT. Part IV. 

I shall be utterly aslianied before her. 

She will come back to-ni<;ht. 1 know she will. 

[//«' thrcnvs himself wearily on the bed. 

ScF.NK XIV, — Crmvd about the Italian Opera-IIouse. Julian. 
Lily /// his arms. Three Studkn rs. 

\st Stuiicnt. Edward, you see that long, lank, thread- 
bare man t 
There is a character lor that same novel 
You talk of thunder-striking London with. 
One of these days. 

id St. I scarcely noticed him ; 

J was so taken with die lovely child. 
She is angelic. 

yi St. You see angels always, 

Where others, more dim-sighted, see hut mortals. 
She is a pretty child. Her eyes are splendid. 
I wonder what the old fellow is about. 
Some crazed enthusiast, music-distract, 
That lingers at the door he cannot enter ! 
Give him an obol, h'rank, to jiay old Charon, 
And cross to the Elysium of sweet sounds, 
Merc's mine. 



Scene XV. WITHIN AND WITHOJT. 169 

ist St. And mine. 

2(1 St. And mine. 

[3^ Student offers the money (o Julian. 

yulian {very quietly). No, thank you, sir. 

Lily. O, there is mother ! 

\Stretching her hands toxvards a lady stepping out of a car- 
riage. 

yiilian. No, no ; hush, my child ! 

\The lady looks rounds and LiLY clings to her father. 
Women talking. 

ist W. I'm sure he's stolen the child. She can't be 

his. 

2d W. There's a suspicious look about him. 

Tyd W. True • 

But the child clings to him as if she loved him. 

[Julian moves on slowly. 

Scene XV. — Julian seated in his room, his eyes fixed on the 
floor. \a\N playing in a corner. 

yiilian. Though I am lonely, yet this little child — 
She understands me better than the Twelve 
Knew the great heart of Him they called their Lord. 

Ten times last night I woke in agony, 
I knew not why. There was no comforter. 



1 -o \V1 III IN .\M> W I I lloi' r. I'AKi IV. 

1 ,s(i(MrIu"tl \\\\ .n m [o liiul lui. .uul \\r\ pl.u'c 
W'.is (Mupt) .IS iu\ luMil. 'riioiij'Ji wide .i\v.ikt\ 
Sonu>(inu>s in\ p.un. luMiumlx'il h\ its own luMuq;, 
lM")r<;o(s its iMiisc\ .uul 1 woiiKl l.i\ ui\ lic.ul 
Upon lu'i hicMsl th.il piAuniscs irlii-f: 
1 lill lUN' t'\rs. .uul K>. llu' wu'.uit w.mKI! 

[//{' /i'oh- up i)tiii sci-s tlu chihi pltiyiug with /it's (/./^'jrr. 

\\>i)'l! hutt \iunsrlt". iu\' I'liild ; It is too sh.u|i. 
Cii\i' it to iiu\ my tl.uliiii;. Th.uik you, dcdv. 

I .^V /'/Aih thi' hilt from the /'/./,/.-• .ittJ >;i:rs it Jin- 
\\c\c, {.\\^c [\\c pu'ltv p.ul. It's not so pnMtv 
.As it w.is oiui' — y'fhtni'ini: nhuuL 

I jiirkc'il tlu* ji'Wc'ls out 
'l\^ l)u\' wnw uiotluM \\\c List ilu\ss 1 l;.i\ i' Ium-. 
'I'luit-'s just one" Irtl, 1 sci", for you. inv l,il\. 

Whv Jul 1 kill NiMulMoni ? Pool s.iviour I, 

l.O.uliu;^ \\\CC 0\\\\ to .1 iMcMliM ill ! 

it" thou wiMt iK'.ul. \\\c rhilil wouKl ronil'oil mo; 
Is she ui^t [\ut ol' \\\cc, a\\k\ .ill mv own ? 
Hut now — 
Lily (t/tro7vitig dowti the da^^^r-hilt^ and ntnnini^- /// 

fo /iim). V.\[\\c\\ wli.it is ;i j^ootrv ? 
ytt/idti. A luMutit'ul Ihiui^. - ot" tlu" most boautitul 
That God h.is m.ido. 



ScenkXV. within ANb WI'l IIOU T. 171 

Lily. As beautiful as mother? 

yulian. No, my dear child ; but very beautiful. 
Lily. Do let me see a poetry. 
yulian {opening a book). There, love. 

Lily {disappointedly). I don't think that's so very 
pretty, father. 
One side is very well — smooth ; but tlie other 

\A'iMiji;r her fm:;er up and dmun the ettds of the lines. 

Is rough, rough ; just like my hair in the morning, 

[Smoothing; her hair down with both hands. 
Before it's brushed. I don't care much about it. 

yulian {pullini.^^ the hook doivn^ and lakini^ her on his 
knee). Vou rjo not understand it yet, my child. 
You cannr;t know where it is beautiful. 
But though you do not see it very pretty, 
Perhaps your little ears could hear it pretty. \.ll^ ^^^^ 

Lily {looking pleased). O, that's much prettier, father 
Very pretty. 
It sounds so nice ! — not half so pretty as mother. 

yulian. There's something in it very beautiful, 
If I could let you see it. When you're older, 
You'll find it for yourself, and love it well. 
Do you believe me, Lily ? 



172 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV 

Lily. Yes, dear father. 

\Kis sing him, then looking at the book. 
I wonder where its prettiness is, though ; 
1 cannot see it anywhere at all. 

\He sets her dozvn. She goes to her corner. 

Julian {77iusing). True, there's not much in me to 
love, and yet 
I feel worth loving. I am very poor, 
But that I could not help ; and I grow old, 
But there are saints in heaven older than I. 
I have a world within me ; there I thought 
I had a wealth of lovely, precious things, — 
Laid up for thinking ; shady woods, and grass ; 
Clear streams rejoicing down their sloping channels ; 
And glimmering daylight in the cloven east ; 
There morning sunbeams stand, a vapory column, 
'Twixt the dark boles of solemn forest trees ; 
There, spokes of the sun-wheel, that cross their 

bridge, 
Break through the arch of the clouds, fall on the 

earth, 
And travel round, as the wind blows the clouds : 
The distant meadows and the gloomy river 



Scene XV. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 173 

Shine out as over them the ray-pencil sweeps. 

Alas ! where am I ? Beauty now is torture : 

Of this fair world I would have made her queen ; 

Then led her through the shadowy gates beyond 

Into that farther world of things unspoken, 

Of which these glories are the outer stars, 

The clouds that float within its atmosphere. 

Under tlie holy might of teaching love, 

I thought her eyes would open — see how, far 

And near. Truth spreads her empire, widening out, 

And brooding, a still spirit, everywhere ; 

Thought she would turn into her spirit's chamber, 

Open the little window, and look forth 

On the wide silent ocean, silent winds. 

And see what she must see, I could not tell. 

By sounding mighty chords I strove to wake 

The sleeping music of her poet-soul : 

We read together many magic words ; 

Gazed on the forms and hues of ancient art ; 

Sent forth our souls on the same tide of sound ; 

Worshipped beneath the same high temple-roofs ; 

And evermore I talked. I was too proud. 

Too confident of power to waken life, 



174 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Believing in my might upon her heart, 

Not trusting in the strength of Uving truth. 

Unhappy saviour, who by force of self 

Would save from selfishness and narrow' needs ! 

I have not been a saviour. She grew weary. 

I began wrong. The infinitely High, 

Made manifest in lowliness, had been 

The first, one lesson. Had I brought her there, 

And set her down by humble Mary's side, 

He would have taught her all I could not teach. 

Yet, O my God ! why hast thou made me thus 

Terribly wretched, and beyond relief? 

\^He looks up and sees that the child has taken the book to her 
comer. She peeps into it ; then holds it to her ear ; then 
rubs her hatid over it ; then puts her tongue on it. 

Julian {bursting into tears). Father, 1 am thy child. 
Forgive me this : 
Thy poetry is very hard to read. 

Scene XVI. — Julian walking with Lily through one of the 
squares. 

Lily. Wish we could find her somewhere. 'Tis so 
sad 
Not to have any mother ! Shall I ask 
This gentlem.in if he knows where she is ? 



Scene XVI. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 1 75 

Jidian. No, no, my love ; we'll find her by and 
by. 
Bernard and another Gentleman talking together. 

Bernard. Have you seen Seaford lately ? 

Gejitleman. No. In fact, 

He vanished somewhat oddly, days ago. 
Sam saw him with a lady in his cab ; 
And if I hear aright, one more is missing — 
Just the companion for his lordship's taste. 
You've not forgot that fine Italian woman 
You met there once, some months ago ? 

Bern. Forgot her 1 

I have to try though, sometimes — hard enough. 

Lily. Mother was Italy, father — was she not ? 

jfulian. Hush, hush, my child ! you must not say a 
word. 

Ber?i. Her husband is alive. 

Gentleman, O, yes ! he is ; 

But what of that — a poor half-crazy creature ! 

Ber7i. Something quite different, I assure you, 
Harry. 
Last week I saw him — never to forget him — 
Ranging through Seaford's house, like the questing 
beast. 



176 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Gentleman. Better please two than one, they 
thought, no doubt. 
I am not the one to blame him ; she is a prize 
Worth sinning for a little more than little. 

Lily ijvhispering). Why don't you ask them whether 
it was mother ? 
I am sure it was. I am quite sure of it. 

Gentleman. Look what a lovely child ! 

Bern. Henry ! Good heavens ! 

It is the Count Lamballa. Come along. 



•&• 



Scene XVII. — Julian'' s room. Julian. \.\ix asleep. 
Julian. I thank thee. Thou hast comforted me, 
thou, 
To whom I never lift my soul, in hope 
To reach thee with my thinking, but the tears 
Swell up and fill my eyes from the full heart 
That cannot hold the thought of thee, the thought 
Of Him in whom I live, who lives in me, 
And makes me live in Him ; by whose one thought, 
Alone, unreachable, the making thought, 
Infinite and self-bounded, I am here, 
A living, thinking will, that cannot know 



Scene XVII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 177 

The power whereby I am — so blest the more 
In being thus in thee — Father, thy child. 
I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me. 
My being shares thy glory : lay on me 
What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me 
Whate'er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I 
May do it as my best, my highest Joy ; 
For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee. 
Wilt thou not save my wife ? I cannot know 

The power in thee to purify from sin. 

But Life can cleanse the life it lived alive. 

Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault. 

She loves me not, I know — ah ! my sick heart ! 

I will love her the more, to fill the cup ; 

One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled : 

For if I love her not, how desolate 

'Ihe poor child will be left ! he loves her not. 
I have but one prayer left to pray to thee — 

Give me my wife again, that I may watch 

And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell 

What loving-kindness I have found in thee ; 
And she will come to thee to make her clean. 
Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss, 



lyS WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

To know a dead one lieth in the house : 
Let me be near her in that agony, 
To tend her in the fever of the soul, 
Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope, 
.'Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh ; 
And when I cannot comfort, help her weep. 
God, I would give her love like thine to me. 
Because I love her, and her need is great. 
Lord, I need her far more than thou need'st me, 
And thou art Love down to the deeps of hell : 
Help me to love her with a love like thine. 

Haw shall I find her ? It were horrible 
If the dread hour should come, and I not near. 
Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang. 
One writhing of self-loathing and remorse ; 
For she must hate the evil she has done. 
Only take not away hope utterly. 

Lily {in her sleep). Lily means me — don't throw it 
over the wall. 

jfulian {going to her). She is so flushed ! I fear the 
child is ill. 
I have fatigued her too much, wandering restless. 
To-morrow I will take her to the sea. \Rehtrning. 



Scene XVIL WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 179 

If I knew where, I'd write to her, and write 
So tenderly, she could not choose but come. 
I will write now ; I'll tell her that strange dream 
I dreamed last night : 'twill comfort her as well. 

\^He sits down and writes. 

My heart was crushed that I could hardly breathe. 
I was alone upon a desolate moor ; 
And the wind blew by fits and died away — 
I know not if it was the wind or me. 
How long I wandered there, I cannot tell ; 
But some one came and took me by the hand. 
I gazed but could not see the form that led me, 
And went unquestioning, I cared not whither. 
We came into a street I seemed to know. 
Came to a house that I had seen before. 
The shutters were all closed ; the house was dead. 
The door went open soundless. We went in, 
And entered yet again an inner room. 
The darkness was so dense, I shrunk as if 
From striking on it. The door closed behind. 
And then I saw that there was something black, 
Dark in the blackness of the night, heaved up 
In the middle of the room. And then I saw 



l80 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

That there were shapes of woe all round the room, 

Like women in long mantles, bent in grief, 

With long veils hanging low down from their heads, 

All blacker in the darkness. Not a sound 

Broke the death-stillness. Then the shapeless thing 

Began to move. Four horrid muffled figures 

Had lifted, bore it from the room. We followed, 

The bending woman-shapes, and I. We left 

The house in long procession. I was walking 

Alone beside the coffin — such it was — 

Now in the glimmering light I saw the thing. 

And now I saw and knew the woman-shapes : 

Undine clothed in spray, and heaving up 

White arms of lamentation ; Desdemona 

In her night-robe, crimson on the left side ; 

Thekla in black, with resolute white face ; 

And Margaret in fetters, gliding slow — 

That last look, when she shrieked on Henry, frozen 

Upon her face. And many more I knew — 

Long-suffering women, true in heart and life ; 

Women that make man proud for very love 

Of their humility, and of his pride 

Ashamed. And in the coffin lay my wife. 



Scene XVII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. i8l 

On, on, we went. The scene changed. For the hills 
Began to rise from either side the path. 
At last we came into a narrow glen, 
From which the mountains rose abrupt to heaven, 
Shot cones and pinnacles into the skies. 
Upon the eastern side one mighty summit 
Shown with its snow faint through the dusky air. 
Upon its sides the glaciers gave a tint, 
A dull metallic gleam, to the slow night. 

From base to top, on climbing peak and crag, 
Aye, on the glaciers' breast, were human shapes. 
Motionless, waiting ; men that trod the earth 
Like gods ; or forms ideal that inspired 
Great men of old — up, even to the apex 
Of the snow-spear-point. Morni?ig had arisen 
From Giulian's tomb in Florence, where the chisel 
Of Michelagnolo laid him reclining. 
And stood upon the crest. 

A cry awoke 
Amid the watchers at the lowest base. 
And swelling rose, and sprang from mouth to mouth. 
Up the vast mountain, to its aerial top ; 
And "/i- God coming ? " was the cry ; which died 
Away in silence ; for no voice said No. 



l82 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

The bearers stood and set the coffin down ; 
'I'he mourners gathered round it in a group ; 
Somewhat apart I stood, I know not why. 

So minutes passed. Again that cry awoke, 
And clomb the mountain-side, and died away 
In the thin air, far-lost. No answer came. 

How long we waited thus, I cannot tell — 
How oft the cry arose and died again. 

At last, from far, faint summit to the base. 
Filling the mountain with a throng of echoes, 
A mighty voice descended : ^^God is coming T^ 

! what a music clothed the mountain-side. 
From all that multitude's melodious throats. 
Of joy and lamentation and strong prayer ! 
It ceased, for hope was too intense for song. 
A pause. The figure on the crest flashed out, 
Bordered with light. The sun was rising — rose 
Higher and higher still. One ray fell keen 
Upon the coffin 'mid the circling group. 

What God did for the rest, I know not ; it 
Was easy to help them. I saw them not. 

1 saw thee at my feet, my wife, my own ! 
Thy lovely face angelic now with grief; 



Scene XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 183 

But that I saw not first : thy head was bent, 

Thou on thy knees, thy dear hands clasped between. 

I sought to raise thee, but thou wouldst not rise, 

Once only lifting that sweet face to mine, 

Then turning it to earth. AVould God the dream 

Had lasted ever ! No ; 't\^as but a dream ; 

Thou art not rescued yet. 

Earth's morning came, 
And my soul's morning died in tearful gray. 
The last I saw was thy white shroud yet steeped 
In that sun-glory all-transfiguring. 
And as a slow chant blossomed suddenly 
Into an anthem, silence took me like sound : 
I had not listened in the excess of joy. 

Scene XVIII. — Portsmouth. A bedroom. Lord Seaford. 
Lady Gertrude. 

Lord S. 'Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am 
sorry. 
If you could go alone, I'd have you go. 

Lady Gertrude. And leave you ill ? No, you are 
not so cruel. 
Believe me, father, I am happier 



1 84 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

In your sick room, than on a glowing island 
In the blue Bay of Naples. 

Lord S, It was so sudden ! 

I fear it will not go again as quickly. 
But have your walk before the sun be hot. 
Put the ice near me, child.. There, that will do. 

Lady Gertrude. Good-by then ^father, for a little ' 
while. {Goes. 

Lord S. I never knew what illness was before. 
O life ! to think a man should stand so little 
On his own will and choice, as to be thus 
Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent 
To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone 
From the rich world ! No sense is left me more 
To touch with beauty. Even she has faded 
Into the far horizon, a spent dream 
Of love and loss and passionate despair. 

Is there no beauty ? Is it all a show 
Flung outward from the healthy blood and nerves, 
A reflex of well-ordered organism ? 
Is earth a desert ? Is a woman's heart 
No more mysterious, no more beautiful, 
Than I am to myself this ghastly moment ? 



Scene XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 1 8$ 

It must be so — it inust, except God is, 

And means the meaning that we think we see, 

Sends forth the beauty we are taking in. 

O Soul of nature, if thou art not, if 

There dwelt not in thy thought the primrose-flower 

Before it blew on any bank of spring, 

Then all is untruth, unreality, 

And we are wretched things ; our highest needs 

Are less than we, the offspring of ourselves ; 

And when we are sick, they are not ; and our hearts 

Die with the voidness of the universe. 

But if thou art, O God, then all is true ; 

Nor are thy thoughts less radiant that our eyes 

Are filmy, and the weary, troubled brain 

Throbs in an endless round of its own dreams. 

And she is beautiful — and I have lost her ! 

O God ! thou art, thou art ; and I have sinned 
Against thy beauty and thy graciousness ! 
That woman-splendor was not mine, but thine. 
Thy thought passed into form, that glory passed 
Before my eyes, a bright particular star : 
Like foolish child, I reached out for the star. 
Nor kneeled, nor worshipped. I will be content 



1 86 win UN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

That she, the Beautiful, dwells on in thee, 
Mine to revere, though not to call my own. 
Forgive me, God ! Forgive me, Lilia! 

My love has taken vengeance on my love. 
I writhe and moan. Yet I will be content. 
Yea gladly will I yield thee, so to find 
That thou art not a phantom^ but God's child ; 
That Beauty is, though it is not for me. 
When I would hold it, then I disbelieved : 
That I may yet believe, I will not touch it. 
I have sinned against the Soul of love and beauty, 
Denying Him in grasping at his work. 

Scene XIX. — A country cJnirch-yard. Julian seated on a tomb- 
stone. \a\N gathering; Jlojvcrs and grass among the graves. 

yidian. O soft place of the earth ! down-pillowed 
couch, 
Made ready for the weary ! Everywhere, 
O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children — 
Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up. 
Leave to return to thee, and in thy bosom 
Lie in the luxury of primeval peace. 
Fearless of anv morn ; as a new babe 



Scene XIX. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 187 

Lies nestling in his mother's arms in bed : 

That home of blessedness is all there is ; 

He never feels the silent rushing tide, 

Strong setting for the sea, which bears him on, 

Unconscious, helpless, to wide consciousness. 

But thou, thank God, hast this warm bed at last - 

Ready for him when weary : well the green 

Close-matted coverlid shuts out the dawn. 

O Lilia, would it were our wedding-bed 

To which I bore thee with a nobler joy ! 

Alas ! there's no such rest : I only dream 

Poor pagan dreams with a tired Christian brain. 

How couldst thou leave me, my poor child .'* my 
heart 
Was all so tender to thee ! But I fear 
My face was not. Alas ! I was perplexed 
With questions to be solved, before my face 
Could turn to thee in peace : thy part in me 
Fared ill in troubled workings of the brain. 
Ah, now I know I did not well for thee 
In making thee my wife. I should have gone 
Alone into eternity. I was 
Too rough for thee, for any tender woman — 



l88 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Other I had not loved — so full of fancies ! 

Too given to meditation. A deed of love 

Is stronger than a metaphysic truth ; 

Smiles better teachers than the mightiest words. 

Thou, who wast life, not thought, how couldst thou 

help it ? 
How love me on, withdrawn from all thy sight — 
For life must ever need the shows of life ? 
How fail to love a man so like thyself, 
Whose manhood sought thy fainting womanhood ? 
I brought thee pine-boughs_, rich in hanging cones, 
But never white flowers, rubied at the heart. 
O God, forgive me ; it is all my fault. 
Would I have had dead Love, pain-galvanized, 
Led fettered after me by jailer Duty.? 
Thou gavest me a woman rich in heart. 
And I have kept her like a caged sea-mew 
Starved by a boy, who weeps when it is dead. 

God, my eyes are opening — fearfully : 

1 know it now — 'twas pride, yes, very pride 
That kept me back from speaking all my soul. 
I was self-haunted, self-possessed — the worst 
Of all possessions. Wherefore did I never 



Scene XIX. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 189 

Cast all my being, life and all, on hers, 

In burning words of openness and truth ? 

Why never fling my doubts, my hopes, my love, 

Prone at her feet abandonedly ? Why not 

Have been content to minister and wait ; 

And if she answered not to my desires. 

Have smiled and waited patient ? God, they say, 

Gives years a hundred to an aloe-flower : 

I gave not five years to a woman's soul. 

Had I not drunk at last old wine of love } 

I flung her love back on her lovely heart ; 

I did not shield her in the wintry day ; 

And she has withered up and died and gone. 

God, let me perish, so thy beautiful 

Be brought with gladness and with singing home. 

If thou wilt give her back to me, I vow 

To be her slave, and serve her with my soul. 

I in my hand will take my heart, and burn 

Sweet perfumes on it to relieve her pain. 

I, I have ruined her — O God, save thou ! 

[I/e bends Jiis head iipon his knees. LiLY comes running tip 
(0 him, stimibling over the graves. 

Lily. Why do they make so many hillocks, father } 
The flowers would grow without them. 



I90 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Julian, So they would. 

Lily. What are they for, then ? 

Julian {aside). I wish I had not 

brought her ; 
She 7uill ask questions. I must tell her all. 
{Aloud.) 'Tis where they lay them when the story's 
done. 
Lily. What ! lay the boys and girls ? 
Julian. Yes, my own child — • 

To keep them warm till it begin again. 
Lily. Is it dark down there ? 

\Clmging to Julian, and pointing doivn. 
Julian. Yes, it is dark ; but pleasant — O, so 
sweet ! 
For out of there come all the pretty flowers. 

Lily. Did the church grow out of there, with the 
long stalk 
That tries to touch the little frightened clouds.^ 

Julian. It did, my darling. There's a door down 
there 
That leads away to where the church is pointing. 

\She is silent for some time, and keeps looki7ig first down and 
then up. Julian carries her away in his arms. 



Scene XX. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 191 

Scene XX. — Porfsjnoufh. Lord Seaford, partially recovered. 
Enter Lady Gertrude a7id Bernard. 

Lady Gef'trtide. I have found an old friend, father. 

Here he is. 
Lord S. Bernard ! Who would have thought to see 

you here ! 
Bern. I came on Lady Gertrude in the street. 
I know not which of us was more surprised. 

[Lady Gertrude ^^^j-. 
Bern. Where is the countess ? 

Lord S. Countess ! What do 

you mean ? 
I do not know. 

Bern. The Italian lady. 

Lord S. Countess 

Lamballa, do you mean ? You frighten me ! 

Bern. I am glad indeed to know your ignorance ; 
For since I saw the count, I would not have you 
Wrong one gray hair upon his noble head. 

[Lord Seaford covers his eyes with his hands. 

You have not then heard the news about yourself t 
Such interesting morsels reach the last 



192 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

A man's own ear. The public has decreed 
You and the countess run away together. 
'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos, 
And that she has been often to your house. 
The count believes it — clearly from his face : 
The man is dying slowly on his feet. 

Lord S' {s/(irf///^ up and ringing the hell). O God ! 
what am I ? My love burns like hate, 
Scorchinsr and blastinjr with a fierv breath ! 

Bern. What the deuce ails you, Seaford ? Are you 



raving? 



Enter Waiter. 



Lords. Post-chaise for London — four horses — 
instantly. [/le shiks ex/taustcd in his choir. 

Scene XXI. — Ltly in bed. Julian seated by her. 
Lily. O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me. 

Another story is very nearly done. 

[//t* takes her on his knees. 
I am so tired ! Think I should like to go 
Down to the warm place that the ilowers come from, 
Where all the little boys and girls are lying 
In little beds — white curtains, and white tassels. 



Scene XXI. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. I93 

No, no, no — it is so dark down there ! 
Father will not come near me all the night. 

Julian. You shall not go, my darling ; I will keep 
you. 

Lily. O will you keep me always, father dear 1 
And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me ? 
I should be so happy, never to move ! 
'Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms ! 
Don't let it take me ; do not let me go : 
I cannot leave you, father — love hurts so. 

Julian. Yes, darling ; love does hurt. It is too 
good 
Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now, 
And try to make you sleep ? 

Zt/y. I Yes — no; for I should leave you then. O, 
my head ! 
Mother, mother, dear mother ! Sing to me, father. 

[//e tries to sing. 

O the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love ! 
Wherever the sun shines, the waters go. 
It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove, 
God on his throne, and man below. 

But sun would not shine, nor waters go, 
Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan, 
13 



194 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

God be on high, nor man below, 

But for love — for the love with its hurt alone. 



Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows, 
Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain : 
Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows, 
Help us love on in the hope of thy gain : 

Hurt as it may, love on, love forever ; 
Love for love's sake, like the Father above, 
But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never 
Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love. 

[S^e sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child leaning 
on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in 
which he talks. 

Julian. A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea- 
vault : 
Man with the heart, praying for wofnanU love. 
Receive thy prayer : be loved; and take thy choice : 
Take this or this. O Heaven and Earth ! I see — 
What is it ? Statue trembling into life 
With the first rosy flush upon the skin ? 
Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings ? 
I see her — where I know not ; for I see 
Nought else : she filleth space, and eyes, and brain — 
God keep me ! — in celestial nakedness. 



Scene XXI. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. I95 

She leaneth forward, looking down in space, 
With large eyes full of longing, made intense 
By mingled fear of something yet unknown ; 
Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands 
Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms. 

heavenly artist ! whither hast thou gone 
To find my own ideal womanhood — 
Glory grown grace, divine to human grown ! 

I hear the voice again : Speak but the word : 
She will array herself and come to thee. 
Lo, at her white foot lie her solar clothes , 
Her earthly dress for work and weary rest. 

1 see a woman-form, laid as in sleep. 
Close by the white foot of the wonderful. 
It is the same shape, line for line, as she. 
Green grass and daisies shadow round her limbs. 
Why speak I not the word ? Clothe thee, and come, 

infinite woman ! my life faints for thee. 

Once more the voice : Stay I look on this side firs 

1 spake of choice. Look here^ O son of man I 
Choose then between them. Ah ! ah ! \_Silen^ 

Her I knew 
Some ages gone ; the woman who did sail 



196 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Down a long river with me to the sea ; 

Who gave her lips up freely to my lips, 

Her body willingly into my arms ; 

Came down from off her statue-pedestal, 

And was a woman in a common house, 

Not beautified by fancy every day, 

And losing worship by her gifts to me. 

She gave me that white child — what came of her ? 

I have forgot. I opened her great heart. 

And filled it half-way to the brim with love — 

With love half wine, half vinegar and gall — 

And so — and so — she — went away and died ? 

God ! what was it ? — something terrible — 

1 will not stay to choose, nor look again 
Upon the beautiful. Give me my wife. 
The woman of the old time on the earth. 
O lovely spirit, fold not thy parted hands, 
Nor let thy hair weep like a sunset-rain 

From thy bent brows, shadowing thy snowy breasts ! 
If thou descend to earth, and find no man 
To love thee purely, strongly, in his tuill^ 
Even as he loves the truth, because he will, 
And when he Cannot see it beautiful — 



Scene XXI. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 197 

Then thou mayst weep, and I will help thee weep. 
Voice, speak again, and tell my wife to come. 

'Tis she, 'tis she, low-kneeling at my feet ! 
In the same dress, same flowing of the hair, 
As long ago, on earth : is her face changed ? 
Sweet, my love rains on thee, like a warm shower ; 
My dove descending rests upon thy head ; 
I bless and sanctify thee for my own : 
Lift up thy face, and let me look on thee. 

Heavens, what a face ! 'Tis hers ! It is not hers I 
She rises — turns it up from me to God, 
With great rapt orbs, and such a brow ! — the stars 
Might find new orbits there, and be content. 
O blessed lips, so sweetly closed that sure 
Their opening must be prophecy or song ; 
A high-entranced maiden, ever pure. 
And thronged with burning thoughts of God and 

Truth ! 
Vanish her garments ; vanishes the silk 
That the worm spun, the linen of the flax — 
O heavens! she standeth there, my statue-form, 
With the rich golden torrent-hair, white feet. 
And hands with rosy palms — my own ideal 1 



198 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

The woman of jny world, with deeper eyes 
Than I had power to think — and yet my Lilia, 
My wife, with homely airs of earth about her ; 
And dearer to my heart as my lost wife, 
Than to my soul as its new-found ideal ! 
O, Lilia ! teach me ; at thy knees I kneel ; 
Make me thy scholar ; speak, and I will hear. 
Yea, all eternity — [He is roused by a cry from the child. 

Lily. O, father ! put your arms close round about 
me. 
Kiss me. Kiss me harder, father dear. 
Now ! I am better now. 

\She looks long a}id passionately in his face. Her eyes close ; 
her head dro/s Ihickzaard. She is dead. 

Scene XXII. — A cottagc-rootn. l^u.iA folding a letter. 
Lilia. Now I have told him all ; no word kept bacV 
To burn within me like an evil fire. 
And where I am, I have told him ; and I wait 
To know his will. What though he love me not, 
If I love him ! I will go back to him. 
And wait on him submissive. 'Tis enough 
For one life, to be servant to that man ! 
It was but pride — at best, love stained with pride, 



Scene XXIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. I99 

That drove me from him. He and my sweet child 
Must miss my hands, if not my eyes and heart. 
How lonely is my Lily all the day, 
Till he comes home and makes her paradise ! 

I go to be his servant. Every word 
That comes from him softer than a command, 
I'll count it gain, and lay it in my heart. 
And serve him better for it. He will receive me. 

Scene XXIII. — Lily lying dead. Julian bending over her. 

yulian. The light of setting suns be on thee, child 1 
Nay, nay, my child ! the light of rising suns 
Is on thee. Joy is with thee — God is Joy ; 
Peace to Himself, and unto us deep joy ; 
Joy to Himself, in the reflex of our joy. 
Love be with thee ! yea God, for He is Love. 
Thou wilt need love, even God's, to give thee joy. 
Children, they say, are born into a world 
Where grief is their first portion : thou, I think. 
Never hadst much grief — thy second birth 
Into the spirit-world has taught thee grief, 
If, orphaned now, thou know'st thy mother's story, 
And know'st thy father's hardness. O my God, 
Let not my Lily turn away from me. 



200 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Now I am free to follow and find her. 
Thy truer Father took thee home to Him, 
That He might grant my prayer, and save my wife. 
I thank Him for his gift of thee ; for all 
That thou hast taught me, blessed little child. 
I love thee, dear, with an eternal love. 
And now farewell ! \^Kisstng her. 

No, not farewell ; I come. 
Years keep not back, they lead me on to thee. 
Yes, they will also lead me on to her. 

Enter a Jew. 
yew. What is your pleasure with me ? Here I am, 

sir. 
yuUan. Walk into the next room ; then look at 
this, 
And tell me what you'll give for everything. jJew^^^^j. 
My darling's death has made me almost happy. 
Now, now I follow, follow. I'm young again. 
When I have laid my little one to rest. 
Among the flowers in that same sunny spot. 
Straight from her grave I'll take my pilgrim-way ; 
And, calling up all old forgotten skill, 



Scene XXIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 20I 

Lapsed social claims, and knowledge of mankind, 

I'll be a man once more in the loud world 

Revived experience in its winding ways, 

Senses and wits made sharp by sleepless love. 

If all the world were sworn to secrecy, 

Will guide me to her, sure as questing Death. 

I'll follow my wife, follow until I die. 

How shall I face the Shepherd of the sheep, 

Without the one ewe-lamb He gave to me ? 

How find her in great Hades if not here, 

In this poor little round O of a world .? 

I'll follow my wife, follow until I find. 

Reenter Jew. 
Well, how much ? Name your sum. Be liberal. 
Jew. Let me see this room, too. The things are 
all 
Old-fashioned and ill-kept. They're worth but little. 
Julian. Say what you will — only make haste and 

go- 

Jew. Say twenty pounds. 

Julian. Well, fetch the money at once, 

And take possession. But make haste, I pray. 



202 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

Scene XXIV. — The cotintry church-yard. Julian standing by 
Lily's ne-io-filUd grave. He looks very worn and ill. 

yulian. Now I can leave th6e safely to thy sleep ; 

Thou wilt not wake and miss me, my fair child ! 

Nor will they, for she's fair, steal this ewe-lamb, 

Out of this fold, while I am gone to seek 

And find the wandering mother of my lamb. 

I cannot weep ; I know thee with me still. 

Thou dost not find it very dark down there ? 

Would I could go to thee ; I long to go ; 

;My limbs are tired ; my eyes are sleepy, too ; 

And fain my heart would cease this beat, beat, beat. 

gladly would I come to thee, my child, 
And lay my head upon thy little heart, 
And sleep in the divine munificence 

Of thy great love ! But my night has not come : 
She is not rescued yet ; and I must go. 

\_He turns, but sinks on the grave. Recovering and rising. 

Now for the world — that's Italy and her. 

Scene XXV. — The cni/ty room, formerly Lilia's. Entet 
Julian. 

Julian. How am I here ? Alas ! I do not know. 

1 should have been at sea. Ah ! now I know ! 



Scene XXV. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 203 

I have come here to die. [l/c-s d.nvn on the floor. 

Where's Lilia t 
I cannot find her. She is here, I know. 
But O these endless passages and stairs, 
And dreadful shafts of darkness ! Lilia ! 
Lilia'! wait for me, child ; I'm coming f-ist. 
But something holds me. Let me go, devil ! 
My Lilia, have faith ; the}' cannot hurt you. 
You are God's child — they dare not touch you, wife. 

pardon me, my beautiful, my own ! \Sings, 

Wind, wind, thou blowest many a drifting thing 
From sheltering cove, down to the imsheltered sea ; 
Thou blowest to the sea my blue sail's wing — 
Us to a new, love-lit futurity : 

Out to the ocean fleet and float — 

Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. 

\}Vhile he sings^ enter LoRD Sk^ford, pale and haggard. 
Julian descries him suddenly. 

What are you, man ? O brother, bury me — 
There's money in my pocket — 

[Emptying the yezu's gold on the floor. 

b}' my child. 

[Staring at hin, . 
O ! you are Death. Go, saddle the pale horse — 

1 will not walk — I'll ride. What, skeleton ! 



204 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

I cannot sit him ! ha ! ha ! Hither, brute ! 
Here, Lilia, do the lady's task, my child. 
And buckle on my spurs. I'll send him up 
With a gleam through the blue, snorting white foam- 
flakes. 
Ah me ! I have not won my golden spurs, 
Nor is there any maid to bind them on : 
I will not ride the horse, I'll walk with thee. 
Come, Death, give me thine arm, poor slave ! — we'll go. 
Lord Seaford {stooJ>ing over ki7n). I am Seaford, 

Count. 
Julian. Seaford ! What Seaford ? [Recollecting. 

Seaford ! {Springing to his feet. 

Where is my wife ? 
\_He falls into Seaford's arms. He lays him down. 

Lord S. Had I seen him, she had been safe for me. 

{Goes. 

[Julian lies motionless. Insensibility passes irito sleep. 
He wakes calm, in the stiltry dusk of a summer 
evening. 

yiilian. Still, still alive ! I thought that I was dead. 
I had a frightful dream ! 'Tis gone, thank God ! 

{He is quiet a little 

So then thou didst not take the child away 



Scene XXV. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 20$ 

That I might find my wife ! Thy will be done. 

Thou wilt not let me go. This last desire 

I send away with grief, but willingly. 

I have prayed to thee, and thou hast heard my prayer : 

Take thou thine own way, only lead her home. 

Cleanse her, O Lord. I cannot know thy might ; 

But thou art mighty, with a power unlike 

All, all that we know by the name of power, 

Transcending it as intellect transcends 

The stone upon the ground — it may be more ; 

For these are both created — thou creator, 

Lonely, supreme. 

Now it is almost over. 
My spirit's journey through this strange sad world ; 
This part is done, whatever cometh next. 
Morning and evening have made out their day ; 
My sun is going down in stormy dark. 
But I will face it fearless. 

The first act 
Is over of the drama. Is it so ? 
What means the dim dawn of half-memories 
Of something I knew once and know not now — 
Of something differing from all this earth ? 



206 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part IV. 

I cannot tell ; I care not — only know 
That God will keep the living thing He made. 
How mighty must He be to have the right 
Of swaying this great power I feel I am, 
Moulding and forming it, as pleaseth Him ! 
O God, I come to thee, thou art my life ; 

God, thou art my home, I come to thee. 
Can this be death ? Lo 1 I am lifted up 

Large-eyed into the night. Nothing I see 

But that which is, the living awful Truth ; 

All forms of which are but the sparks flung out 

From the luminous ocean clothing round the sun, 

Himself all dark. Ah ! I remember me : 

Christ said to Martha — " Whosoever liveth, 

And doth believe in me, shall never die." 

1 wait, I wait, expecting, till the door 
Of God's wide theatre be open flung 

To let me in. What wonders I shall see ! 
The expectation fills me, like new life 
Dancing through all my veins. 

Once more I thank the 
For all that thou hast made me — most of all, 
That thou didst make me wonder and seek thee. 



Scene XXV. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 20/ 

I thank thee for my wife : to thee I trust her ; 

Forget her not, my God. If thou save her, 

I shall be able then to thank thee so 

As will content thee — with full-flowing song, 

The very bubbles on whose dancing waves 

Are daring thoughts flung faithful at thy feet. 

My heart sinks in me — I grow faint. O ! whence 

This wind of love that fans me out of life ? 

One stoops to kiss me — ah, my lily child ! 

God hath not flung thee over his garden wall. 

[Reenter Lord Seaford with the doctor. Julian takes no 
heed of them. The doctor shakes his head. 

My little child, I'll never leave thee more ; 

We are both children now in God's big house. 

Come, lead me ; you are older here than I 

By three whole days, my darling angel-child ! 

\A letter is brought in. LoRD Seaford holds it before 
Julian's eyes. He looks vaguely at it. 

Lord S. It is a letter from your wife, I think. 

yulian {feebly). A letter from my Lilia ! Bury it 
with me — ■ 
I'll read it in my chamber, by and by : 
Dear words should not be read with others nigh. 
Lilia, my wife ! I am going home to God. 



20S ^VITHI^' AND WITHOUT. Fart IV. 

ZorJ S. (I'c'nJi/t^- (tzrr Aim). I'll pledge m\- soul \-our 
wife is innocent. 

(Julian* ^c-r^rj <i/ Aim blankly. A light hfgins tc grew in kis 
nrs. It grows till kis fact is transfigureiL It vanishes. 
He dies. 



END OF PART IV, 



WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 

PART V. 

And do not fear to hope. Can poet's brain 

More than the fathers heart rich good invent ? 

Each time Ave smell the autumn's dying scent. 

We know the primrose time will come again ; 

Not more we hope, nor less would soothe our pain. 

Be bounteous in thy faith, for not misspent 

Is confidence unto the Father lent : 

Thy need is sown and rooted for his rain. 

His thoughts are as thine own : nor are his ways 

Other than thine, but by their loftier sense 

Of beauty infinite and love intense. 

W^ork on. One day, beyond all thoughts of praise, 

A sunny joy will cro^^•n thee with its rays ; 

Nor other than thy need, thy recompense. 



14 



PART V. 

A DREAM. 
Scene I. — " ^ world not realized.'^ LiLY. To her, Julian. 
Lily. r~\ FATHER, come with me! I have 



o 



found her — mother. 



Scene II. — A room in a cottage. Lilia on her knees before a cru- 
cifix. Her back only is seen, for the Poet dares not look on 
her face. On a chair beside her lies a book, open at CHA P' 
TER VIII. Behijid her stands an Angel, bending forxvard^ 
as if to protect her with his wings partly expanded. Appear 
Julian, with Lily in his arms. Lily looks with love ofi the 
angel, and a kind of longing fear on her mother. 

Julian. Angel, thy part is done ; leave her to me. 

Angel. Sorrowful man, to thee I must give place ; 
Thy ministry is stronger far than mine ; 
Yet have I done my part. She sat with him. 
He gave her rich white flowers with crimson scent, 
The tuberose and datura ever burning 
Their incense to the dusky face of night. 
He spoke to her pure words of lofty sense, 



212 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part V. 

But tinged with poison for a tranced ear. ■ 

He bade low music sound of faint farewells, 

Which fixed her eyes upon a leafy picture, 

Wherein she wandered through an amber twilight 

Towards a still grave in a sleepy nook. 

And ever and anon she sipped pale wine, 

Rose-tinged, rose-odored, from a silver cup. 

He sang a song, each pause of which closed up, 

Like a day-wearied daisy for the night, 

With these words falling like an echo low : 

" Love, let us love and weep and faint and die." 

With the last pause the tears flowed at their will, 

Without a sob, down from their cloudy skies. 

He took her hand in his, and it lay still. 

A blast of music from a wandering band 

Billowed the air with sudden storm that moment. 

The visible rampart of material things 

Was rent — the vast eternal void looked in 

Upon her awe-struck soul. She cried and fled. 

It was the sealing of her destiny. 

A wild convulsion shook her inner world ; 

Its lowest depths were heaved tumultuously ; 

Far unknown molten gulfs of being rushed 



Scene II. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 213 

Up into mountain-peaks, rushed and remained. 

The soul that led a fairy life, athirst 

For beauty only, passed into a woman's : 

In pain and tears was born the child-like need 

For God, for Truth, and for essential Love. 

But first she woke in terror ; was alone, 

For God she saw not ; woke up in the night. 

The great wide night. No mother's hand had she 

To soothe her pangs, no father's voice to cheer. 

She would not come to thee ; for love itself 

Too keenly stung her sad, repentant heart, 

Giving her bitter names to name herself ; 

But calling back old words which thou hadst spoken 

In other days, by light winds borne away, 

Returning in the storm of wretchedness, 

Hither she came to seek her Julian's God. 

So now farewell ! My care of her is over. 

yulian. A heart that knows what thou canst never 
know. 
Fair angel, blesseth thee, and saith, farewell. 

\The angel goes. Julian and Lily take his place. Lilia 
is praying, and they hear parts of her prayer. 

Lilia. O Jesus, hear me ! Let me speak to thee. 



214 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part V. 

No fear oppresses me ; for misery 
Fills my heart up too full for any fear. 

Is there no help, O Holy .? Am I stained 
Beyond release ? 

yuliaJi, Lilia, thy purity 

Maketh thy heart abuse thee. I, thy husband, 
Sinned more against thee, in believing ill, 
Than thou, by ten times what thou didst, poor child, 
Hadst wronged thy husband. 

Lilia. Pardon will not do ; 

I need much more, O Master. That word go 
Surely thou didst not speak to send away 
The sinful wife thou wouldst not yet condemn ! 
Or was that crime, though not too great for pardon, 
Too great for loving-kindness afterwards ? 
Certain, she came again behind thy feet, 
And weeping, wiped, and kissed them, Mary's son ! 
Blessed forever with a heavenly grief. 
Ah ! she nor I can claim with her who gave 
The best she had, her tears, her hair, her lips. 
To soothe feet hard with Galilean roads : 
She sinned against herself, not against — Julian. 

O God, O God, find some excuse for me. 



Scene II. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 21$ 

Wilt thou not find something to say for me, 
As for the crowd that cried against thee, then, 
When heaven was dark, because thy lamp burned 
low ? 

Julian. Not thou, but I am guilty, Lilia. 
I made it possible to tempt thee, child. 
Thou didst not fall, beloved ; only, one moment 
Beauty was queen, and Truth not lord of all. 

Lilia. O Julian, my husband — it is strange — 
But when I think of Him, He looks like thee ; 
And when He speaks to comfort me, the voice 
Is like thy voice, my husband, my beloved ! 

! if I could but lie down at thy feet. 
And tell thee all, yes, every word, I know 

That thou wouldst think the best that could be 

thought, 
And love and comfort me. O Julian, 

1 am more thine than ever. Forgive me, husband, 
For calling me, defiled and outcast, thine. 

Yet may I not be thine as I am His ? 
Would I might be thy servant — yes, thy slave, 
To wash thy feet, and dress thy lovely child, 
And bring her at thy call — more wife than I. 



2l6 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part V. 

But I shall never see thee, till the earth 
Lies on us both — apart — O, far apart ! 
How lonely shall I lie the long, long years ! 

Lily. O mother, there are blue skies here, and 
flowers, 
And blowing winds, and kisses, mother dear. 
And every time my father kisses me, 
It is not father only, but Another, 
Make haste and come. My head never aches here. 

Lilia. Can it be that they are dead ? Is it possible ? 
I feel as if they were near me ! Speak again, 
Beloved voices ! comfort me ; I need it. 

jfuliafi {singing). 

Come to us ; above the storm 

Ever shines the blue. 
Come to us : beyond its form 

Ever lies the True. 

Lily {singing). 

Mother, darling, do not weep - 

All I cannot tell : 
By and by, you'll go to sleep, 

And you'll wake so well. 

yulian {singing). 

There is sunshine everywhere 
For thy heart and mine : 



Scene III. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 21/ 

God, for every sin and care, 
Is the cure divine. 

Lily {smging). 

We're so happy all the day, 

Waiting for another : 
All the flowers and sunshine stay, 

Waiting for you, mother. 

jfulia7i. My maiden ! for true wife is maiden ever 
To the true husband : thou art mine forever. 

Lilia. What gentle hopes are passing to and fro ! 

Thou shadowest me with thine own rest, my God ; 

A cloud from thee stoops down and covers me. 

[She falls asleep on her knees. 

Scene HI. — Julian on the summit of a mountain-peak. The 
stars are brilliant around a crescent moon, hanging halfway 
between the mountain and the sky. Below lies a sea of vapor. 
Beyond rises a loftier pinnacle, across which is stretched a bar 
of cloud. Lily lies on the cloud, looking earnestly into the 
mist below. 

yulian {gazing upwards). And thou wert with me 
all the time, my God, 
Even as now ! 1 was not far from thee. 
Thy spirit spoke in all my wants and fears, 
And hopes and longings. Thou art all in all. 
I am not mine, but thine. I cannot speak 
The thoughts that work within me like a sea. 



21 8 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Part V. 

When on the earth I lay, crushed down beneath 

The hopeless weight of empty desolation, 

Thy sympathizing face was lighted then 

With expectation of my joy to come, 

When all the realm of possible ill should lie 

Under my feet, and I should stand as now 

All-sure of thee, true-hearted, only One. 

Was ever heart filled to such overflowing 

With the pure wine of blessedness, my God ? 

Filled as the night with stars, am I v/ith joys ; 

Filled as the heavens with thee, am I with peace ; 

For now I wait the end of all my prayers. 

Of all that have to do with old-world things : 

What new things come to wake new prayers, my God, 

Thou knowest, and I wait in perfect peace. 

[He turns his gaze downwards. From the fog-sea beloiv half 
rises a woman f or m^ which floats towards him. 

Lo, as the lily lifts its shining bosom 

Above the couch of waters where it slept, 

When the bright morn toucheth and waketh it ; 

So riseth up my lily from the deep 

Where human souls are tried in awful dreams. 

[Lily spies her mother, darts dozvn into the fog, and is 
caught in her arms. They land on Julian's feak, 
and climb, LiLY leading her 7nother. 



Scene III. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 219 

Lily. Come faster, mother dear ; father is waiting. 

Lilia. Have patience with me, darling. By and by, 

■■ I think I shall do better. O my Julian ! 

Julia?!. I may not help her. She must climb and 

come. 

\He reaches his hand, ajtd the three are clasped' in infinite 
embrace. 

O God, thy thoughts, thy ways, are not as ours : 

They fill our longing hearts up to the brim. 

[ T/ie moon and the stars and the blue night close around 
them ; and the Poet awakes from his dream. 



THE END. 



WILFRID CUMBERMEDE. 



BY 

GEORGE MACDONALD, 

uthor of ^^ Alec Forbes,''^ ^'■Annals of a Quiet NeighborhoOi 
^'Robert Falconer,'''' &^c., d^c. 

Complete in One Vol. 12ino, witli 14 full-page illustrations, Cloth, $1.76. 



Wilfrid Cumbermede is the latest and ripest work of one who is now acknowledged, 
l>y a large and constantly increasing public, to be the greatest living master of fiction, 
equalling Dickens in his vivid depiction of character, glorious in imagination, and intense 
in religious fervor. 

Wilfrid Cumbermede is absorbingly interesting in plot, full of adventure, pure and 
strong in every point of incident and style, and written with a power which places it entirely 
by itself among the novels of the day. 

CRITICAL NOTICES. 

"The charms and value of Mr. Macdonald's work need not be .sought. They present 
themselves unasked for, in the tender beauty of his descriptions, whether of nature or life 
and character, in his almost superhuman insight into the workings of the human heart, and 
in his unceasing fertility of thought and happy exactitude of illustration." — London Pall 
Mall Gazette. 

"This book is full of intellectual wealth. It will teach us as many wise thoughts, and 
nurture as many noble feelings, as either ' Robert Falconer ' or 'Alec Forbes.' " — British 
Quarterly Review. 

" It is simple, natural, pathetic, and playful by turns, interesting in plot and develop- 
ment of character, and written in such limpid English as it does one good to meet with." — 
N. Y. Journal of Commerce. 

"Alter all, the supreme interest of Macdonald's novels is found, neither in the deline- 
ation of character nor in the narration of incident, but in the personality of the writer, 
revealed everywhere in lofty or subtle thought, in noble sentiment, and in lovely feeling." — 
Boston Daily Transcri/>t. 

" The best story of him who is the best of living story-writers. It may be enjoyed 
almost in perfection by one who has not read the beginning, and who will never read the 
sequel ; and it will remain in the memory like a beautiful song." — JV. V. Inde/>etident. 

" Mr. Macdonald's writings are beautiful in style, powerful in description, pathetic and 
pure in their design." — Christian Intelligencer. 



WITHIN AND WITHOUT, 



GEORGE MACDONALD. 

One vol. i2mo. $1.50. 

This, which is the longest poem and one of the most important works of this popular 
author, is, in fact, a Thrillinrf Story in Verse. 

It deals in a graphic and masterly manner with the deepest human passion, is beautiful 
with imat^ination, and intensely interesting in plot. Macdonald is one of the most original 
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